


A Pocketful of Rye

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Gen, Paternal Lestrade, Post Guy Fawkes Bonfire, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SERIOUS chemistry, Sherlock is a chemist, caring is not an advantage, missing John, things are falling apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11658138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: Post TEH, this is Sherlock's first case for the Met after solving the Second Gunpowder Plot, only this time, he's solving it on his own. Without John, will the strains of what happened while he was away pull him apart at the seams? Lestrade looks on, with concern.





	1. Chapter 1

She was muttering. Lestrade couldn't quite hear her over the sound of the car's tires on the dark wet road. "What was that?" He held onto his take-away coffee, as she slipped the unmarked Mondeo onto the roundabout, which was surprisingly busy with traffic. The ASDA to their right had its lights on, including one that boasted of a 24 hour opening. She squeezed the gunmetal grey unmarked police vehicle between two huge container lorries, and swore under her breath.

"Say again, Sally?"

"I said, I hate November."

Greg took another pull at the hot liquid caffeine. "Why November in particular? What’s it ever done to you?"

"Because it means getting up and driving to work while it's still dark. It's bad enough to be going home in the dark. I don't mind working late; homicide crime scenes are easier late at night- fewer people rubber-necking on the side-lines. But, it's six forty five in the sodding morning; it should be getting light out." She gestured out at the blackness, broken only by the strange orange of the sodium street lighting. "And what is it with these guys, organising a meeting that starts at 7? Not exactly social hours."

"They're port police, Sally. Run on a different shift system." He sipped his coffee as she drove off the roundabout onto the dock approach road.  It felt good to be back with the old team.  Unlike Lestrade, who had been suspended, then side-lined to a Homicide Assessment Team, Sally had ridden out the storm that surrounded the fake suicide, the police investigation, and the posthumous enquiry that cleared Sherlock’s name.  The Met’s internal affairs team cleared her of any misdeeds; just doing her job had been the verdict, and the responsibility for the whole thing had been put on Lestrade’s shoulders for involving a civilian in the first place.  However difficult their last assignment together had been, Lestrade did not hold grudges. When he’d been offered a return to the MIT units, he had been surprised and then actually pleased that she had volunteered to re-join his team.

The past three months of work together had ironed out any awkwardness, as Lestrade was just so happy to be able to get back to what he enjoyed doing.

An eight wheeler cut across their lane, forcing Sally to brake hard and swear. Lestrade quickly swallowed his sip of coffee, nearly choking to blurt out, "There it is, across the road on your right."

She slowed the car, and flipped the indicator to signal the right turn. Behind her a lorry driver stood on his horn, the hydraulic brakes protesting in a huff. None of the steady stream of lorries coming out of the docks area would stop to let her cross. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, muttering "come on…"

Finally, Greg got annoyed. Slipping the coffee cup into the holder, he reached over and hit the switch that turned on the blue lights hidden behind the front grill. Obediently, the next lorry stopped and let them cross the St Andrews road and into the main entrance of the Port of Tilbury. Another right hand turn across a long line of lorries waiting to leave the main gate, and then they were in the car-park of the Port of Tilbury Police Station. Greg turned the lights off. She shot him a look.

"I know. Only supposed to use them in an emergency, and this doesn't qualify. Still," he shrugged. "It's not like they're going to file a complaint. Just don't let me catch you doing it."

She reversed into an empty slot. "So, tell me again, Guv. Why do these guys want us on their patch?"

"Too small to have their own internal enquiry team. Port of Tilbury Police force is tiny. So, they call in either Essex or the Met when they can't solve their own homicides. Not to say that they happen very often. It's been four years since the last one. Then, bang- three deaths in the last three months, and no progress made in solving them, so the heat is on. The Essex force has thrown in the towel, so we've been assigned to help out. That said, don't go throwing your weight around. They get a bit touchy about it."

As they entered the large well-lit station lobby, Greg was startled to see how busy it was. There were several rows of chairs, most of which were taken, with what looked to be a lot of lorry drivers. Uniformed officers were talking to some, carrying clipboards.

The officer looked up when they approached the desk. "You DCI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan?" The Desk Sergeant was a big man, with reddish hair and freckles. But the grim look on his face tempered what might have passed for a welcoming smile.

Greg nodded for them both.

"Right. The briefing room's been set up for you, but it turns out that you're wanted on a case in progress. This time the bastards got one of our own." He called out, "Ellicock." A young sergeant turned away from the lorry driver he was talking to, and came over. He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes and nodded to the two, dropping his clipboard onto the desk.

"Take these two guests from the Met over to the scene on Centre branch dock. The Chief is waiting for you."

Seven minutes later, Greg was looking down at a man's body. It was wearing a yellow high-vis jacket with  _Port of Tilbury Police_ emblazoned on the back. There was a fishy scent in the air- the Thames this far down river from London would be tidal and a bit briny.

"Jack Schaeffer, Tilbury Port Chief of Police." The man introducing himself was small- not even Sally's height- thin and wiry, and looking decidedly grim. Lestrade introduced himself and Donovan, who was now bending down over the body.

The Chief was shaking his head. "It's Simon West. He's been with us for four years, came from the British Transport Police. Because of the other murders, we've upped the patrols. He was out on one when this happened." There were quite a number of other officers on the scene, most of them not actually working it, but standing behind the tapes, talking quietly. Their breath clouded in the cold moist air off the river. "He was popular with the rest of the lads. This is going to hit the team hard."

A middle-aged woman in a forensic suit was also down on one knee beside the body. Just about managing not to cry, she said, "Donna Foreman. I'm a Port Health Authority Manager- I do the ME work for the Port Police whenever it's needed, which thankfully isn't often. Most of the time I'm just checking the foreign sea crew and the ro-ro drivers' records to make sure no one's bringing in disease, and the odd cargo check. Never thought I'd be doing this for one of our boys."

She lifted the dead man's head gently, feeling on the other side with a gloved hand, which she then held up and squinted at it, trying to see if there was any blood on it. "Apparent cause of death is a single gunshot to the left temple. Death would have been instantaneous. It may not be a through and through. Don't know for sure whether the bullet is still in his brain; not until I turn him over."

Sally sighed, and Greg watched as she crouched down further to take a closer look. The body was lying chest down, but his head was turned, and the Met DI could see the side of West's face under the dark hole that was the bullet's entry wound.  _Young_ ,  _too young._ The scene was bathed in the peculiar orange light so common in industrial sites, but Greg would need brighter light to see if there was any gunpowder residue that would suggest an execution-style gun to the temple. A glance around made him realise that dawn was coming- but the river mist and low cloud wouldn't help much for a while.

A man in a security guard's uniform with a fancy SLR digital camera moved in. "Please step away from the body so I can get a clear view; then you can get to work properly." Sally got up and backed away with Lestrade and Foreman, as the camera flash went off repeatedly. Less than a minute later, the young man turned back to them. "You can turn him now."

Donna caught Sally's eye. "Will you help?"

The two women gently rolled the body over, so West was on his back. The ME spoke first. "No exit wound." She stopped for a moment, her head bowed. "This is just so unfair. Simon was pulling overtime because his wife's just about to have their second kid."

The yellow jacket was open, showing the officer's service vest underneath. Sally instantly noticed the absence of the radio that should've been clipped onto the vest up by his shoulder. She turned back to Lestrade and Schaeffer. "No radio; when did he last call in?"

"At 5.12; that's when the Control Room logged it. He was at the far end of the New Branch dock, up near the Emeraude."

Lestrade's face must have looked puzzled, because the Chief explained. "Emeraude France- it's a Catamaran ferry – she's been laid up here since 2007; owners can't seem to find a buyer. There's a thousand meters between here and there. He should have called in again at 5.32. When there was no response, we sent out a patrol and they found him here at ten past six."

The ME flipped the yellow jacket open and that's when Greg realised what had been making his nose twitch- the smell of fish. Possibly not so odd, given they were on a dock, but this was much more immediate. And one look at the dead officer explained why. In the man's service vest right pocket, the head of a fish was poking out.

"Step aside, ladies." The photographer moved in and started taking frontal shots.

"Guv- there's a bulge in his trouser pocket; doesn't look right. Can I investigate?"

Lestrade turned to Schaeffer. "It's your manor, but my Sarg is one of the best on the force. Given we're supposed to be investigating how you've handled the earlier three deaths, it makes sense for us to get in on this one, too. Besides, it's always hard to be objective when the victim is one of your own."

Schaeffer looked at Sergeant Ellicock who shrugged, then reluctantly nodded. The Chief then nodded, too.

As soon as the flash stopped, Sally was back on her knees beside the body, and this time, both Lestrade and Schaeffer were looking over her shoulder.

Greg said quietly, "Have you got a CSE on your force?"

Schaeffer huffed; "Sort of; he's a part-timer from the service that Kent uses. We call him in when we need him. He's on his way. He lives in Dartford. Not normally on duty until 9. He just missed the 7.10 ferry over from Gravesend. He'll be here shortly- on the 7.40 departure. It'll be eight or so by the time he gets on scene. Ellicock, give her your set of gloves and some evidence bags."

Sally used a pen to prod the fish out of the vest pocket and into the first bag, handing it back to the PC. Then she carefully pushed her gloved hand into the man's left hand trouser pocket. She pulled out what appeared to be an evidence bag full of wheat. Puzzled, she lifted her hand up so that the others could see it.

The Port Chief spoke first. "That doesn't make sense. The grain terminal is on the north side of New Branch. Why would he have put that in a pocket? And what the hell is he doing with a dead fish?"

Lestrade stood up and reached in his coat pocket for his phone. "I don't know. But I know a man who will be able to help." He scrolled down a list for an old number that he hadn’t had the heart to delete two years ago. He’d have to return it to speed dial.

The call was picked up on the third ring.

"Hi. I've got a weird one- a port police officer with a pocket of fish and wheat, possibly linked to three earlier murders. Will you come?"

Sally sighed as she got to her feet. This time, Greg heard the mutter loud and clear: "Two years without HIM on the scene; I suppose it was too good to last.


	2. Chapter 2

A half an hour later, the port police were itching to move the body.

"No." Lestrade was adamant. "It really needs to stay where it is."

Chief Schaeffer grimaced. "Why?"

"Because the crime will be solved faster if the person I called can see the scene for real rather than in photographs. Trust me; I know his methods."

"Look, I don't know who you've got coming that's going to do anything different from the CSE and ME on scene, but I gave you the scene to process, so that's up to you."

The small man turned to the Medical Examiner. Almost gently, he said, "Doctor Freeman, I think it best if you don't handle the autopsy."

She nodded. "I'll contact the Pathologist at Basildon Hospital. I don't think I could bear to do this to Simon. Chief, we really have to catch the bastards who did this. Poor Lucy; she's going to be devastated."

To Lestrade, Schaeffer gave a sharp nod. "I've got to go. I have to phone West's wife. It's really not on to wait any longer. When you're done here, there's the evidence of the previous three murders waiting for you in the briefing room." The Chief looked down sadly at the blue tarpaulin now covering the body, one last time before turning away and moving back through the crowd on the other side of the tape.

CSE Mantey pulled off his gloves, having bagged the body's hands. He'd been on the scene for nearly a half hour. He was an overweight man in his early forties, who had arrived red-faced and puffing, having rushed from the ferry terminal a half mile to the east of the dock area. He'd got Ellicock to organise the line of port constables, now combing the dock area with, looking for trace – particularly a bullet casing. The light had improved. It would be a grey day, but the sun was up enough behind them to be able to spot what they were looking for, if it was there. Thankfully, the orange sodium lights had gone off.

Going through West's other clothing, the CSE found nothing apart from an old coin in his upper shirt pocket, which Lestrade was now looking at carefully, through the plastic evidence bag. Blackened and thick with corrosion, a bit heavy- not possible to read where it came from or what it was worth. A third mystery to add to the fish and the wheat.

 _Sherlock's going to love this one._ Greg had been looking forward to getting back to work with him. After the media circus around his return and the Underground bomb, he figured that the man would appreciate some solid case work.  _Just like old times._  It might shift some of the ennui that Greg had seen settling on Sherlock's shoulders.

Sally returned from talking to some of the off-duty staff milling about outside the tape- a mix of port security with a few uniformed police officers. The impatience on her face told Lestrade that she was feeling some sympathy for the grumbling tone in the voices he'd heard behind him.

"Guv, they're upset. It's nearly nine. What's taking him so bloody long? They think it's cruel to keep the body hanging about- not decent and all. They were curious at first- what does the Met have that they don't have, but now they just want West to be treated with respect."

Greg nodded. "I get that. Traffic at this hour will be dire; the Dartford bridge is going to be nose-to-tail. Listen, Donovan." He was trying to figure out how to say this without pissing off his sergeant. "I know you haven't worked a scene with him in more than two years. And I know the two of you didn't exactly part on good terms…"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you could say that. He's going to march in here and tell me I'm an idiot, blaming me for…everything. The idea that he might be doing the crimes himself? Yes, sir, that's  _my_  stupidity. I was proved wrong by the inquiry, and he won't let me forget it. I was bloody lucky to keep my job, which I am sure he will remind me of several times." She looked down at the ground. "I'm not looking forward to this, you know. You could have warned me. I sort of wanted to try to make my peace with him privately, without having a crime scene to be working at the same time."

"No time like the present." Greg was looking over her shoulder as the crowd behind the tapes parted, and a tall solitary figure in a long dark coat lifted the yellow tape and strode onto the scene.

Sally turned around, to watch Sherlock move straight to the body and crouch down, pulling his forensic gloves on tight. He lifted the blue tarpaulin that was covering it.

She squared her shoulders and walked over. Lestrade held a hand up to keep the CSE and ME back, before going to stand on the other side of the body. He stood off a bit, giving Sally her chance to say her piece. But before she could start, the crouching figure spoke first.

"Good morning, Sergeant Donovan. You have bagged the evidence. I'd like to see what was in his pockets." He didn't look up, instead pulling open his sliding magnifier to examine the bullet wound in West's temple.

She looked up at the sky for a moment, bit her lip, and then without a word turned to CSE Mantey, crooking a finger to signal him to come over. However, it was Donna Foreman who picked up the cooler that the CSE had used to store the evidence. The woman had pushed back her blue plastic hood, and Sally could see her dark hair was greying. She came and set it down on the ground beside Sherlock. She gave a little shrug to Lestrade. "Mantey has to get back to work. His day job is in Kent; he just does us the odd favour now and then."

Greg watched as Sally crouched down across the body from Sherlock and said quietly, "So, that's how it's going to be? As if nothing happened?"

Without a word, the consulting detective pulled the top of the cooler off and looked in, then pulled out the bag with the fish, to take a closer look.

Sally drew breath, "Okay, let's get this over. I was wrong and I'm…"

He cut her off with a quiet "Don't."

"Don't  _what_?"

"Don't apologise. There is nothing to apologise for. You were doing your job; Moriarty counted on that fact. I don't hold you in any way responsible. He manipulated us all." It was said quietly, and in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he'd asked her to pass the next piece of evidence. "Now, I need to see the wheat you mentioned, Lestrade."

Greg was standing there a little stunned by the exchange between Sherlock and Sally. Whatever awkwardness his sergeant might have felt, it obviously wasn't shared by the consulting detective. It was not quite a Sherlockian olive branch, but far more than a caustic 'piss off' that Sally had been expecting. It impressed Greg, and that surprised him. The Sherlock who returned from whatever he had gotten up to over the past two years was a changed man, and it wasn't all change for the worse.

He watched Donna Foreman reach into the cooler and pull the bag of grain out. Sherlock took it from her, his eyes always on the bag. Greg winced.  _He still doesn't like making eye contact with strangers, though._  The DI waited for Sally to flare up and say something sarcastic, but it didn't come. She was looking at Sherlock, a puzzled frown on her face.

In the meantime, Sherlock opened the bag and took a deep sniff. He poured a few grains out on his gloved hand and brought it up to his face, really looking at it. "Not wheat. This is rye.  _Secale cereale,_  a different grain, it's more closely related to barley than wheat. Northern Russia and Poland are the principal producers, but Germany, Belarus and the Ukraine are all sizable producers, too."

Lestrade asked the obvious question, "So, how does that matter?"

"Look around you. We are in a port. Sergeant Donovan can check what ships are using the grain terminal at the north end of the Riverside Upper berths on the New Branch docks. One of them is likely to be carrying rye." This was delivered in a quiet monotone, no sneer or sarcasm. No attempt to make him or anyone else look stupid. Greg was impressed, again. It was as if Sherlock was actually trying to avoid irritating people.

Now the consulting detective reached over to the cooler and fished out the bag with the blackened coin, holding it up to examine it through the magnifier. "This is an old half shilling. Otherwise known as a sixpence. Before your time, Donovan, but not yours, Lestrade. Pre-decimal."

Greg considered the blacked coin. The corrosion was so bad that no text or image of any kind was decipherable. "How can you tell?" He couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

"Shape, size, weight. I can get the corrosion off in a lab, but the date of minting is irrelevant."

He stood up, and put the coin and the bag of rye back into the box. "I'll take a few of the grains to analyse, as well."

The ME spoke up. "It would be easiest to use the Port Health Authority lab. It's across the street from the station. We can keep the chain of evidence intact over there, and we have a full technical analysis array- use it for the tests that are needed on the goods coming in, as well as the health of the crews on the ships."

Sherlock looked at her, as if seeing her properly for the first time. "Yes, that would be convenient." Then he quickly broke eye contact and bent over the body again. "Can you remember how the fish was actually placed in the pocket? I need to know exactly."

Sally beckoned the photographer over. "Show Holmes the photo you took of the fish." The man clicked through the menu until he got the right close up on the back screen.

"Hmm. That's interesting."

Greg was waiting; he knew that Sherlock had put something together. But where was the triumphant "Oh!" or the little smirk that he'd come to know over the years? Sherlock seemed quiet, subdued, as he stood up and walked a few paces away from the body, pulling his hands together under his chin. The morning breeze was picking up, and it caught his coat, causing it to billow out behind him. He stood silent, his eyes focused somewhere out on the dark water. He looked tired; there were faint dark smudges under his eyes.

The audience of police behind the tape was becoming restless, and Greg was aware that all eyes were on Sherlock, watching him.  _Sometimes I think we all expect too much of him._ Now more than ever; the publicity around his fake suicide, his exoneration at the inquiry, his miraculous return to London, followed so soon by the Underground bomb case- well, it made people expect a miracle.

He came up to the man's shoulder and said quietly, "have you got anything?"

The onshore breeze blew a few of the black curls away from his face, but he didn't move. Then he turned to look back at the body. "It's a message." He paused, before continuing, " _Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye_. It's an old nursery rhyme. I'm not sure what the message means, but the clues left in the man's pockets are as clear as day."

"What about the fish? What does that mean?"

"Not just a fish, Lestrade, it's a sardine, a fish of the herring family in the species of  _Clupeidae_."

Greg frowned, confused. "Is a fish part of the rhyme?"

"No."

"Does that matter?"

"I don't know. Maybe, maybe not; I need more data."

"There's more evidence- the previous three murder files are at the station. What say we go there now? They want to move this body quickly."

Sherlock walked back and looked down at the dead man, before nodding. "I need a list of the ships in dock at the moment."

Donna Foreman answered, "Yes, of course, back at the station, sir. We can get all of that off the port authority's systems; the station house has a direct live feed."

Sherlock nodded again. He took one more look down the length of the dock, before turning back to Lestrade and the women. "Then let's go." He strode off, with Greg watching as the crowd on the other side of the tape parted silently, their questioning eyes following the lone figure that passed through them without a sideways glance.

As he and Sally followed, with the ME, Greg kept thinking how this was a different Sherlock, and not just because John wasn't there with him. There had been no swoop or swirl of that coat, no little smiles to himself, or asides. No bravado deductive streams, or snide comments about him being an idiot or Sally failing to keep up. No insult to any of the PCs, nor a dig at the crime scene examiner. It certainly made for a quieter crime scene. But, there was no  _joy_  in the man's actions, which were now almost subdued, almost a bit weary. That, more than anything else, worried the hell out of Greg.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: If you are not following my other story Ex Files, then you will have missed the latest posted recently. It's called "Exhort", and covers Mycroft's POV on the start of this Pocketful of Rye story. It helps to explain why Sherlock is acting the way he is. Think of it as a bit of back-story…

As he came down the main corridor of the station, Lestrade frowned. The briefing room door was at the end, but the room was visible through the internal windows. It was positively buzzing, packed with people. The space wasn't big; the lighting harsh- long fluorescent strip bulbs, casting reflections everywhere. The ceiling was low, and it was cramped with furniture – a board style table had been pushed against the wall, and the chairs and computers moved in. Box files were stacked up. Phones were going, too- both mobiles and land lines. A cacophony of sound and sights.

The morning shift had arrived, but the night shift was reluctant to leave, given the new murder. Greg could see the evidence wall was already festooned with three sections of photos and writing, but a constable was now carefully moving the whole lot over to the left, to create space on the right for the new victim. He had an audience. There were knots of people, some in uniform, some not, talking to each other about the morning events. The voices weren't the usual jovial banter though, probably out of respect for Simon West, whose photo had just been pinned to the board.

 _They're still in shock._ It never failed to surprise him how differently a police team acted when one of their own was a victim. They might be hardened by day-to-day exposure to homicide horrors, when the job required a professional approach to the victims and their families, but it was different when it was personal.

As he reached the doorway, he felt the press of warm bodies, overdressed to cope with the November cold, now steaming in the heated room. The scent of stale sweat and coffee permeated the place. Even Greg could smell it when he stopped on the threshold, which made him worry about what Sherlock's sensitive nose would make of it. Over the years, Greg had learned that Sherlock worked best when he did not have to deal with the distractions of other people. The Met DI purposefully kept a small team on any scene where the consulting detective was active, with only the bare minimum needed and those would be familiar faces. And when Sherlock came to New Scotland Yard, Greg tried to make it during times when the open plan areas weren't heaving. Even so, more often than not, Sherlock would hole up in Lestrade's office, pacing in the tiny space. At least it was familiar.

So, the DI hesitated, unsure about whether he should take the consulting detective into the throng. That's when Chief Schaeffer across the room spotted him, and called out. "Lestrade, finally! Over here." He beckoned.

Every eye in the room turned to look at who was at the door. Sherlock just stepped around Lestrade and walked in, keeping his eyes on the floor, not looking at any of the faces that were now focused on him. Conversations died away. He moved purposefully to the evidence wall, and then stopped in front of the far right- the first victim. He pulled out his phone and started to take pictures as he read through the material.

Lestrade and Donovan followed him into the room, but stopped in front of Schaeffer. The chief was looking at Sherlock's back, but then turned to face the Met officers. "I knew you were calling in reinforcements, but I didn't realise it would be  _him._ " There was just the faintest tinge of awe in his voice.

There was a man who wasn't in uniform standing beside the Chief. He pulled a face. "Bloody hell; it's bad enough to have the Met looking over my shoulder, but who needs a celebrity detective?" Schaeffer shot him a stern look. "Behave, Bill. Anyone who can help us find Simon West's murderer is welcome here."

From past experience, Lestrade knew this was the part that Sherlock hated the most- the social necessity of introductions. He was standing with his back to the Chief and the rest of the people in the room, as if to shut them out. Greg reached over and put a hand on the upturned collar of the Belstaff coat. There was the quietest of sighs; then Sherlock turned away from the board to face the others.

Before anyone else could say a word, Sherlock spoke. "You are John Schaeffer, Chief of the Tilbury Port Police. The man standing beside you is William Tolhurst, your Detective Inspector. This is DI Lestrade and his Sergeant Sally Donovan. And you know who I am. Now  _that's_  over, can I talk to someone who knows the details on this board without having to look anything up?" It wasn't the acerbic know-all attitude that Greg was expecting, more a resigned  _let's get this over quickly_.

"That would be me." Tolhurst stepped forward. He was as tall as Sherlock, but that's where the similarities ended. The DI seemed as broad as he was tall; an absolute bear of a man. Very short light brown hair, almost military in style, over a black leather jacket and dark shirt with an open collar, and boots instead of shoes. He had a night's growth of dark stubble on his chin. He cut a very different figure from Greg Lestrade, in his grey suit and white button-down shirt, complete with tie. The new Met Chief of Detectives had insisted that anyone who wasn't undercover should wear a tie, as part of the professional image projected to London's citizens.

Sherlock scrutinised Tolhurst for a moment, then nodded. "Chief Schaeffer, it would be better if you and the rest of your men went about their business as usual. I am sure the Port Authority needs you to do so. If you can spare the Medical Examiner, her opinion would be helpful if I have questions about the autopsies." And then he turned back to the evidence board.

Greg realised that the two years away might have changed Sherlock's social skills. He wasn't being overtly rude or sarcastic in his comments, as he might have been before. There was something new in the way he delivered them, a seriousness that carried more authority than his usual provocative tone. The subtext was clear-  _The Work_  is more important than any of us doing it, Sherlock included. Interestingly, that didn't grate as much as the old style, when Sherlock seemed to delight in purposefully getting up people's noses.

Greg and Sally came alongside Sherlock, bracketing him to get their first look at the board for themselves. Behind them, the Chief gave a little cough and then said loudly to the rest of the officers in the room, "The man has a point. Get to work- all of you. The only people who need to be in this room are our guests, DI Tolhurst, Foreman and Sergeant Ellicock, when he gets back from the crime scene. The rest of you- I'll keep you informed of any progress."

Behind them, Greg could hear murmurs from the officers who were reluctant to leave. Someone in the crowd said, "Gee, where's the hat?" There was a ripple of laughter. Sally actually flinched at that, perhaps feeling guilty for her part in the gift that made all the newspaper photos when the mafia fugitive was caught.

Sherlock was oblivious. Lestrade decided that being able to tune people out was probably a useful skill at the moment. The tall brunet took his eyes away from the board to glance at the Tilbury DI standing beside him. "So, tell me about the first victim, Rashid al-Assadi. What's a Yemeni doing on a Ghanaian ship?"

Tolhurst looked startled. "Who said anything about him being from Yemen? His papers are Somali."

Sherlock pointed a long lithe finger at the colour photograph. "Al-Assadi is a Yemeni name; Arabs that have green eyes are almost invariably from Yemen. If he's picked up illegal documentation in Somalia, then that's very interesting. Tell me how he died and where you found him."

The leather jacket creaked as the big man crossed his arms and looked back at the board. "Drowned in the dock. The body was found next to the cruise liner berth, but the tide could have carried it there. Donna?"

The Medical examiner had shed her blue forensic suit, and was now pulling on a white lab coat. In the bright light, Greg could now see the woman's brown hair was interspersed with more than a few grey strands. He guessed she would be about fifty, but in good shape for it. No make-up on the serious but intelligent face. She wasn't beautiful or even conventionally pretty, but there was something about her demeanour that spoke of authority.

She responded to Tolhurst's query, "The autopsy showed he'd been in the water about six hours; the body was discovered by one of the Fred Olson ship crew, just off the stern. We've gotten pretty good at estimating ToD from drowning."

The consulting detective glanced at her again. "The photos here show some bruising. Do you agree that the patterns suggest he put up a fight?"

"Definitely a fighter. He had finger mark bruises on his throat prior to going into the water. And the bruising on his ribs showed definite boot impact, rather than a deck rail or just the broken bones from falling. No trace under the fingernails, though, so he didn't get a chance to scratch. I told the Chief that it was foul play. He was still alive when he went in, but probably too badly injured to last long in the cold water. It was low tide ninety minutes after the estimated time of death, so the quayside would be at least nine meters above the water. Even if he could have shouted with that damaged throat? Well- it would have been next to impossible for anyone on the quay to hear it. The mean temperature of the river midstream mid- October has been about 9 degrees C, and only a few points above that in the docks. That's the reason why the bruises were not more evident, if it had happened in a fight just before he went in, then the cold water would have retarded the bruises coming out."

The consulting detective nodded. "Thorough. Thank you, Doctor Foreman. But, are you certain he drowned in the docks? Is it possible that it could have happened elsewhere and the body dumped?"

She shook her head. "Fluid in the lungs is consistent with the water sample taken at the time the body was recovered. Bacteriophage, solubles and insoluble matter confirm it." She suddenly smiled. "Mister Holmes, the fact that I know that is due to  _you_. Your monograph three years ago on Thames water samples and locations of body dumps was absolutely riveting stuff*. Throughout London Ports Authority area, we've changed our protocols to apply your techniques. If only the circumstances were different, I'd be delighted to have this opportunity to work with you."

Sherlock did not react to her praise, but tapped the photo of the ship that Assadi had been serving on when he died. "The  _Adobia_. Tell me about her."

Tolhurst took up the story. "Ghanaian general cargo ship. She was carrying cocoa beans mostly, and some other stuff. That was offloaded on 5 September, and then she was being reloaded with electrical goods and cars before shipping back to Tema- that's Accra's port. The death happened on the night of the 6th, with the ship due to leave the next day. They don't like hanging around paying berth fees and the captain was pretty pissed off that we delayed his departure by a day to get statements from the crew."

Lestrade looked at the crew ID photo of the dead man. "He looks young. Was he an experienced crew member?"

Tolhurst shook his head. "Nope. Turned out al-Assadi was new to the business- only been on the ship for four months. Usual story- kept himself to himself- nobody had a bad word to say, but no one claimed to know him or his people well. It's the usual stuff- no investigation here ever gets anything useful out of the crew- they don't want to be compelled to testify at any trial because that would mean staying behind when their ship sails. Too many people back home depend on their wages, so they keep shtum."

"How do you deal with the language issue?" Sherlock's question was quietly put.

Tolhurst nodded. "Yeah, it can be an effing pain, but it's one we're used to." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Box files on the far right have the original statements. A lot of deck hands' English is so poor that we have to use translators to make sense of the recordings we take, or get them to write it out in their native language as best they can. Then we get the same guys to translate the written stuff into English transcripts."

Lestrade was trying to get a sense of scale. "How busy was the dock on the night in question? Could somebody on another ship have seen it?"

"Busy?" Tolhurst just shook his head. "Yeah, you could say that. You've got to understand. Tilbury handles 12.5 million tonnes of cargo a year, with over 3,000 ships coming in here. We handle 80% of London's container traffic- that's 120,000 containers a year, making us the third biggest in the whole country. We  _are_  the biggest port in the country for both grain products and forestry. And you said 'dock'? Well, sorry, but that doesn't even begin to explain it. There are 16 independent terminals, with 34 operational berths. We've got cargo being craned off night and day, moving by rail and truck. Some of it gets taken off the nearly 8ks of quayside and straight onto transport but a lot gets trucked into the warehouses. There's over a half million square feet of that space by the way- just to the east of the docks. Oh, and the port area is three and a half square kilometres. To police all that? We have thirteen officers."

Sally spluttered. "Then who were all the rest of the people? I saw four guys in the reception area alone dealing with the public when we got here at seven- and there was quite a crowd at the quayside, too."

He sighed, "They're specials, mostly recruited from staff who work for the Port Authority. Simon was popular with them; treated them with more respect than they are due. They're mostly poorly trained security looking for the odd job to add to their wage packets. We're not like the Met." He sounded more than a little bitter.

Greg was shocked. "Thirteen? Bloody hell, the City of London force has only got a bloody square mile, yet there are over seven hundred and fifty of them." The Met DI had known that they were stretched, but he had no idea just how bad until now.

Sherlock was still staring at the board. "The terminals that are in private hands, the warehouses, the operators- they all have their own security personnel. And then there are the Border Agency staff."

Tolhurst just laughed. "Yeah, and it's like herding cats. Everybody's got their own ways of doing things, and getting stuff centralised? What a joke! We do our best. But even something as simple as CCTV is split up between the different terminals and companies. We have just twelve cameras of our own- at the key road intersections, so we can figure out who has to pay when there are traffic accidents. With the amount of trucks, forklifts and passenger cars coming in and out, there are plenty to keep us busy. We have to rely on the other companies' CCTV to see what's going on near their sites in the port area- and they're not always keen to share. We may be the oldest police force in the country, but that doesn't mean they defer to us."

"I wasn't intentionally insulting your team, Detective. What I meant is that with such fragmentation of security, there are plenty of opportunities for corruption and inefficiency, which makes solving the case harder."

Now Greg was convinced. Whatever had happened to Sherlock over the intervening two years, his manner had changed. There was a kind of laser-like focus, an intensity now that was no longer masked by the sarcastic mannerisms that had once characterised his work on a case.

The consulting detective was focused on the evidence board. "What about the al-Assadi's clothing? Anything in the pockets?"

Now the Port officer looked puzzled. "Just the usual- a wallet with some US dollars- that's the currency of choice for most crew; couple of family photos; a locker key- we checked the locker on the  _Adobia_ \- just clothing and some personal effects. Nothing unusual. Why?"

"I'll explain later, once we've had a chance to look at the boxes. I assume that his effects are in there?"

When Tolhurst nodded, Sherlock replied without looking at the man, "Let's move on to the second victim."

The five of them stepped to the right. Tolhurst started off. "This one is Ridwan Tahyadi, Indonesian national, off the  _Glovis Cougar_. That's a VC registered in the Marshalls." He must have seen Sally's eyebrow go up. "Sorry, VC means vehicle carrier; I sometimes forget not everyone is born knowing shipping terminology. She came in with a cargo of palm oil, but was really here to pick up the latest batch of Landrover cars, off to feed the demand on the streets of Jakarta. The palm oil is more like ballast, just to make the journey here pay for itself; the real money was in the cars. He was murdered on the 17th of September- his body was found lying on the southern dock- nearly got run over by a lorry. He'd been beaten to death with a tyre iron."

Donna Foreman nodded. "Yeah- brutal. I wasn't on the scene, but did the autopsy." She pulled one of the photos off and handed it to Lestrade. "Distinctive pattern of the wounds- one of those tyre irons that has the forked split at the end of it." Greg took a look and passed it to Sherlock. The ME carried on; "It was weird; one blow- the one to the back of the head- was enough to kill him, but the killer just kept going. It took four days to be sure of who the hell it was, cross-checking against missing crew members. "

"Was he killed on the dock, or just dumped there?" Sherlock was now bending down with his magnifier out looking at one of the crime scene photos. "There doesn't appear to be enough blood where he was found."

Tolhurst looked a little startled. "Yeah, that's right- we never did find the point of death. With wounds like that, he would have bled like a stuck pig. But the ship was as clean as a whistle."

Sherlock straightened back up. "Not like a stuck pig. Inappropriate simile, because he's a Muslim- like Assadi."

"How can you tell?" Tolhurst challenged. "None of his ship mates mentioned that."

There was no eye roll to the heavens or any of the usual distain that Sherlock used to show when someone tried to argue with his deductions. Instead, Sherlock just leaned forward to look at the next photo, of the ship. "There are more Muslims living in Indonesia than in any other country in the world. Look at what he's wearing on his head in the crew ID photo- the  _kopiah_ , sometimes called a  _songkok_ \- it's different from the Arab  _taqiyah_ , but all are worn by practicing Muslims. Did you find a prayer mat amongst his effects?"

"I'll have to check the list."

"Cross check with the list of Assadi's effects- you are likely to find one there, too."

He moved onto the third cluster of photos, leaving Greg and the others to follow. This one was a woman- an oriental face, but Greg wasn't an expert in deciphering nationalities. Tolhurst took up the story. "This one's a jane doe. No fingerprint match with anything- and believe me, we tried; sent her details to more than twenty countries. We got nothing at all back."

Donna Foreman took a sad look at the photos. "Probably about twenty years old, not a virgin, but she had not gone through childbirth. She had a single slash of a blade across her throat, would have bled out in minutes. Her body was found in a box that should have contained a new commercial refrigeration unit shipped in from Italy. The warehouse team found the naked body once it had begun to decompose. Hard to say how long the body had been there. As you can see, decomp was pretty advanced."

Tolhurst frowned. "This one is likely to have been done elsewhere, and we just got the body. Doesn't seem to have any links to the other two. The  _Messina Miracoli_ delivered the cargo of white goods and left five days before the body was found."

Sherlock leaned forward and then pulled off one of the autopsy photos. "Tell me about her right hand."

"Oh- yes. It was tattooed." She leaned over to point at something on the photo that Greg couldn't really see from his angle. "There are ink lines marking each of the bones of the hand, with a decorative band around the wrist. And, the tops of her fingers are all densely inked."

"Did you send the tattoo information to the Philippines?"

Tolhurst frowned. "I'll have to check. It was the Essex guys who did that- they have more manpower than we do. Why?"

"Because the tattoo design is unique to the Lumad- an indigenous people who live in the eastern highlands of Mindanao. That's an area which is currently an autonomous Muslim region in an otherwise predominantly Christian country."

Tolhurst just started laughing in amazement. "How the hell do you know this stuff? Nobody else spotted that- and the Essex guys looked on their ink database."

"The trouble with databases, Detective, is that they require people willing to provide the images, or police capturing criminals with the tattoos going to the trouble of photographing them and loading them onto the database. This is not a prison tatt; nor is it likely to feature on many criminals, because the Lumad are a people that do not normally travel far from their homes."

"Yeah, well, maybe. That doesn't explain how  _you_  know about them." The port detective was being sceptical in the extreme.

Sherlock pinned the photo back up. "Because I spent time in the Philippines eleven months ago."

"Yeah? Well, sitting on a beach somewhere in a tourist resort doesn't make you an expert."

For a split second, Lestrade was horrified. He'd had just a hint of what Sherlock had been up to- enough of the story to explain his damaged back. Of course, Tolhurst didn't, but that man's sarcasm was enough to set Sherlock off on a deductive tirade. When someone got nasty, Sherlock's defence mechanisms would kick in. Greg held his breath.

"I wasn't."

Lestrade's eyes grew wide. Even in response to a direct challenge, Sherlock was holding back.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tolhurst was suspicious.

"On a beach. I went nowhere near a beach. I dealt with the criminal network in Davao, the capital city of Mindanao. They were funnelling arms from the Middle East to the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, to fuel their insurgency. The four men were also heavily involved in the pirate activities off Sulu- the business that has put that area on the maritime black list. The four men linked up to a Lloyd's underwriting syndicate that was taking kick-backs to allow scuttled ships to claim for non-existent pirate attacks."

It was said in that calm monotone that now characterised Sherlock's delivery. It spooked Lestrade, who was so used to the 'old' style of sarcasm and insults about stupidity.

It was Sally who voiced their stunned reaction. "Bloody hell; that was some vacation, Holmes."

"It was anything but, Sergeant." Sherlock returned to looking at the notes and photos under the third victim's ID.

Donna Foreman was now looking at the woman's autopsy photo again- this one of her face. Greg thought that before her throat had been slit, she would have been thought of as pretty. The ME summed up his own feeling when she murmured, "Poor girl- how did she get so far from home?"

Greg suggested, "Let's get in touch with the Philippine embassy and see if they can trace her."

Sherlock shook his head. "No point. The autonomous region is just that- autonomous. The Manila government will wash their hands of the issue, and the Mindanao government will ignore her because she isn't Muslim. The Lumad are indigenous animists, loathed by the Muslim majority. Settlers now make up 95% of the local population, which is intent on developing the land for agricultural commodities- cash crops. The Lumad are getting squeezed into extinction." He stood looking at the board intently, his fingers coming together under his chin and then tapping against one another in rapid sequence.

Sergeant Ellicock came into the room just then, carrying a pile of printed photos. Tolhurst greeted him with a nod. "Are those the scene photos, Jack?"

"Yes, sir. Hot off the printer. Wish they were of someone else." He handed them over, and the detective started to put blu-tack on the back of them, then posting them up.

Greg was shaking his head. "I'm struggling to see a connection here, Sherlock. Four bodies, each one of which is killed in a different way, in a different place. We know that neither the Jane Doe nor Tayadi were killed on the spot where their bodies were found."

Sally turned to Ellicock. "Did you find a shell casing?"

The port sergeant shook his head. Then the ME spoke up. "I won't know for sure until the autopsy, but there should have been more blood at the scene if West was shot where he was found. So, that could make a third body killed elsewhere, Detective Inspector. And we have no idea  _where_  in the dock area that Assadi was killed, just where we found the body in the water. So, it could be all four."

"Any ideas, Sherlock?"

"Lots, too many. But not worth sharing any of them yet." He turned away from the wall. "You said there was a live link to the Port Authority system. Can we get a complete list of all ships in port last night and thirty six hours either side of each of the previous murders?"

Ellicock slid into a desk chair and fired up the computer. "Sure thing. But, don't you want the ship that offloaded the refrigerator packing case, or the day when the body was found?"

"Good question, Sergeant."

Greg nearly choked. Not only was Sherlock  _not_  insulting the locals, he actually just praised one of them. He smirked at the sight of disbelief on Sally's face.  _She's in shock, or just jealous._

Sherlock continued, "Both. I doubt the date the case arrived is as important, but to be certain, it is worth having the list. Sergeant Donovan, if you could work with him, I would appreciate it. I'm going to accompany Doctor Foreman to her lab, so I can analyse the wheat, the coin and the fish. Can we agree to meet back here in say three hours?"

Greg turned and looked at the box files. "Sounds like you want me to get started on making sense of that lot."

For the first time that night, Greg saw just a hint of a smile from Sherlock. "That would be most helpful, Lestrade. Even  _you_  should be able to spot something obvious." There it was- the echo of the old Sherlock. But now it was said more as a gentle tease than a criticism. And that made Greg give a grateful smile in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: *Sherlock was working on this Thames testing protocol in the first chapter of Musgrave Blaze. If you haven't read that complete story yet, you might enjoy it, while waiting for the next update of this one.


	4. Chapter 4

"Behold the most complex integumentary structure found in vertebrates, a perfect example of a complex evolutionary novelty, aiding in flight, insulation, waterproofing and colouration; the epitome of avian communication."

Sherlock held up the black feather. "This one belongs to  _Turdus merula_ , the blackbird."

Detective Tolhurst was frowning. "Am I supposed to be impressed by this?"

Lestrade tried to hide a smirk. He'd arrived in the afternoon, after driving from New Scotland Yard where he'd had to attend a morning meeting of all the MIT teams. He'd walked into a stand-off. Sally Donovan had finished working the evidence boxes that he had started on the day before, having driven herself to the docks so she could get to work at the crack of dawn. She was letting the resident detective take the grief. Donna Foreman was watching Sherlock and Tolhurst, her gaze swivelling between the two men as if watching a tennis match.

Sherlock looked tired. Greg wondered what work he had taken back to Baker Street overnight- but he certainly didn't look rested. As if reading his mind, Sherlock answered. "I found the feather in Assadi's post mortem effects, which I examined last night. It had been in his pocket apparently. No worse for wear for having been in the water for so long, but then bird feathers are waterproof."

"And I still say, who gives a flying fig about a bloody feather?" Tolhurst looked seriously out of sorts. The chemistry between the consulting detective and the Tilbury port detective had been tetchy to start with, but after a second day's worth of lab work and grinding through the evidence boxes, their relationship had stretched to the breaking point. Sally was keeping her head down.

The Port's Detective, however, looked like he'd had a good night's sleep. "Who knows why some guy keeps a bird feather? Maybe it's a souvenir to remind him of home. It's irrelevant." Sherlock clearly disagreed and, any minute now, Greg knew that he was going to be told exactly why. Lestrade leaned back against one of the desks, his arms folded, waiting for the fireworks to start. Even Sally, standing alongside him in the briefing room, was holding her breath in anticipation. Greg realised that she just might be welcoming the fact that the target of Sherlock's wrath would not be her this time.

Instead of replying to the barbed comment, Sherlock turned to the white board. This was at the far end of the briefing room- the opposite wall from the evidence board. He opened the cap of the black felt tip marker, wrinkling his nose briefly at the scent, but then started to write.

_Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,_  
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.  
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing,  
Oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?  
The king was in his counting house counting out his money,  
The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey  
The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,  
When down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose!

As soon as Sherlock finished the exclamation mark, Donna recited it softly.

Tolhurst finally exploded, "What the fuck is this? Have you  _both_  gone off your rockers?" He shot an angry look at the Met detective pair, as if seeking moral support from his fellow police officers.

Greg just put out both hands in a placatory manner, as if damping down a fire. "Just give him a minute, will you?" Sally looked away, and bit her lip to try to keep the smile off her face. She'd had similar WTF moments of her own with Sherlock, and was certainly not going to give any help to the Port detective.

Silently, Sherlock then opened four different coloured pens and started underlining various words on the poem, drawing out a bubble to the side- in effect, annotating the rhyme with links to evidence. He explained, "The sixpence was in West's pocket. It was planted there, along with the rye. The poem suggests that the coin was used to buy the rye. Logic suggests that the rye sample is most likely to have come off the  _Odessa Printessa_. Not only that, we now believe that this cargo of grain has been contaminated with ergot fungus."

Tolburst was not looking at the board; he was pacing. "So you say. Contaminated, or just a bad harvest, that the Ukrainians didn't catch on the way out? What difference does a little bit of black stuff in the grain make?"

Sherlock stopped his writing and turned to glare over his shoulder at Tolhurst. "Ergot,  _Claviceps purpurea,_ is a stage of fungus growth that produces mycotoxins. The species is the original source for LSD, and it has been implicated in causing hallucinations, convulsions and gangrene for the past twelve hundred years. Don't doubt the power of the ergot toxins- they killed hundreds of thousands of people in the Middle Ages, and some say that if it weren't for the damage it caused in the immune system of the survivors, the bubonic plague would not had had the devastating effect it did."

Tolhurst's face screwed up in disbelief. "LSD? Was that newspaper right about you being on drugs? What does something that happened in the Middle Ages have to do with our four bodies?"

Greg heard Sally's intake of breath. Sherlock's shoulders tensed. He re-capped the pen and turned fully to face the big man. "The latest mass outbreak took place in France in 1951. Ergotism  _kills_ , Detective. It's just as potent a form of murder as a gun or knife, even if its presence is harder to detect than either of those two weapons."

Donna Foreman spoke up. "Bill, just calm down. That's why we test every load of grain from a non-EU port of origin. It's not as easy as some of the other mycotoxin tests, but the EU has stepped up its ergot regulations. That's what I don't understand. The grain off of the  _Odessa Printessa_  was tested, and the results documented as clean."

Sherlock just shrugged. "The pocketful of rye says otherwise. I analysed four samples independently, subjecting each to the six chemical tests needed to detect the presence of Ergot- and each one came up as more than ten times the legal limits for contamination. This would have been enough to poison a lot of people."

"So, you're saying that the records of the grain tests were falsified."

Sherlock nodded. He turned back to the board and tapped the line  _the queen is in the parlour eating bread and honey._  "It's possible that this line refers to that fact. Rye is used in baking bread. Doctor Foreman, do we know what happened to the grain offloaded?"

She nodded. "Yes- got the confirmation an hour ago. It went into the grain container lorries on the night before last. I've tracked each and every one of them to their point of delivery and put out a seizure notice. Mostly bakeries, a couple of breweries and a half dozen Scottish distilleries. We'll be able to test a sample from each in a couple of days when they get around to posting us one."

"Good, that's a sensible approach. In the meantime, it also makes sense to assume that it is poisoned, but has been passed by the port authorities as clean." He smiled.

Tolhurst just growled, "This is nonsense. If there is contamination going on here, why would anyone be murdering people just to  _reveal_  that fact? Even if I were to accept your crazy premise, if PC West was killed because he discovered it, then surely they'd have checked his pockets and removed the stuff. You've got it all back to front. Either that, or you are implying that he was a bent copper taking bribes to cover it all up- and that makes no sense either, because he wouldn't be caught carrying the evidence of his own culpability. And who the hell would kill him for doing that?"

Sherlock stood up straighter, as if affronted by the man's comments. "You are assuming that the constable put the rye in his pocket. It is much more likely that it was planted in his pocket, along with the other evidence."

Now Greg was confused. He really wanted Sherlock to be right, but it was getting hard to see what the connection was. "Why would someone do that? All that does is plant suspicions that the murderer would not want anyone to draw."

"Who said anything about a  _murderer_  planting the evidence? It is quite possible that someone else planted the props, in order to  _raise_  suspicions."

A red flush was beginning to creep up Tolhurst's neck. He barked out, "This is just outrageous. You're making this stuff up. Four unrelated murders, and you're turning them into some grand conspiracy, and then, as if that's not enough, inventing  _another_  conspiracy that's determined to expose the first one by leaving ridiculous clues related to some stupid nursery rhyme. If anyone actually had evidence that connected these murders, they could knock on the front door of this station and tell us what they found. This elaborate game of rhymes and planting evidence? It's just a figment of your hyperactive imagination, Holmes."

"Is it? Then consider the other  _evidence_ , Detective. Ergotism begins some two to eight weeks after ingesting the infected rye- usually eaten in the form of rye bread. Look at the Lumad woman's left ankle."

"Oh!" Donna's eyes went wide. "You mean the fact that her foot was turned at such a peculiar angle. I just thought that was due to her being squashed into the box. But, you're suggesting that's the effect of convulsive spasm?"

Sherlock whirled around to face her again. "What do you think the odds are of a co-incidence that the same grain is responsible for the death of the third victim?" He once again rewarded the Health Authority manager with a brief smile.

Greg was trying to follow. "But…your autopsy didn't show any signs of poisoning."

She gave a rueful shrug. "Didn't check for obscure alkaloid poisoning; why would I? Cause of death was clear. She bled out from the cut to her throat."

Sherlock took a stride towards the woman, his eyes lighting up. "But, don't you see? The ergotism could have been the  _motive_  for her being killed. Someone could have seen the effects, realised what it meant and killed her to stop anyone from thinking she was afflicted."

Donna's hands were in motion coming up to her mouth in shock. "Oh my God! What if she was delusional? She could have killed herself. I just assumed that the slash of the blade was consistent with someone doing it standing behind her. But, she could have done it herself." She demonstrated the slashing movement across her own neck.

"That is quite possible; the hallucinations that afflicted victims in the Middle Ages were horrible. It could well lead a person to consider suicide. Or, her rantings could be misunderstood by her captors."

"Captors? Who said anything about the jane doe being  _kidnapped_? All we know is that her body arrived here in a box from Italy." Tolhurst was just shaking his head in disbelief.

Sherlock ignored him and looked straight at Lestrade and Sally. "A Lumad woman would not leave her home voluntarily. She was probably taken as just one more victim of human trafficking. The evidence from the box that she was found in was consistent with the other cargo stored in the warehouse, but there is  _no_  evidence suggesting that she was put in there in Italy. A forklift operator would have noticed the reduction in weight and rigidity of a carton carrying a body instead of a fridge, and checked the contents. Who wants to pay the fine for trying to pass off an empty box as valid cargo? No, logic says she was placed in the box here in the UK- which means in that warehouse."

He turned back to the ME. "I presume the body is still in a morgue somewhere?"

She nodded. "Yes, no one's claimed her and, because she was murdered, I sent her to Basildon University Hospital to be held until we closed the case. I will contact them to see if they can test for ergotism."

Sherlock was now sharing her smile. "Get them to test as well for vascular constriction in the lower limbs and fingers, or any incipient gangrene."

"Yes, yes- even if the fungus has deteriorated by now because of decomposition, the evidence will still be there. That's  _brilliant._ "

Lestrade realised that this was the most animated that he had seen Sherlock in days- no, actually, since the man had returned. However badly things were going between him and the Tilbury detective, the opposite was happening with Donna Foreman. Their give and take was absolutely fizzing with energy. And Greg was pleased to see it. When he'd investigated the East End skeleton, Lestrade kept feeling that Sherlock was very conscious of the absence of John Watson- even to the extent of talking to John as if he were still there. But now some of the passion was returning to the consulting detective's manner- and Greg figured that Donna Foreman was helping to bring out the best in Sherlock.

Whatever positive thoughts he had on that subject were shoved aside by another scathing comment from Tolhurst. "Well, now that you two have gotten off together on the subject of a dead body, can I point out that all of this is just guesswork? There is no evidence at all that the four deaths are actually connected. This idea that it's somehow linked to a kiddie's song is just…well, it's preposterous! Where's the bloody  _proof_?" He stalked off from the board and came face-to-face with Lestrade, trying to intimidate him physically. "Lestrade, If the Met's  _pet_  can't come up with something more plausible than this joke, then I'm off to Schaeffer. He'll pull your team off this tomorrow."

Sherlock just turned his back on the port detective, and returned to underlining key words in different colours. He carried on as if Tolhurst had not had his outburst, or threatened the investigation.

"The feather was in Assadi's clothing. We don't know to whom the  _blackbirds_  applies, nor its meaning yet. But, I think we will find it, once we deduce the rest. This is a complicated puzzle, Detective Tolhurst, and if it were easy to prove, then even  _you_  would have solved it months ago."

_That's my boy!_  Greg's wait for the sarcasm and insult was finally over.

The Port detective didn't even break stride. "You are  _gone_  by tomorrow- the whole lot of you."

Tolhurst's stubborn refusal to go along with Sherlock's idea had finally provoked some returning fire from the consulting detective. For years, Greg assumed that the barbed comments and irritating insults were just a cross to be borne when dealing with Sherlock. But now, watching him grapple with this case without John, Greg realised that it was more than that. When the man's intellect was firing on all cylinders, when his interest was fully engaged and the data was starting to come together, it was almost as if Sherlock  _needed_  an obstacle or two to sharpen his argument, to draw out the very best in him. John's innocent questions often provoked that insight in a way that worked best, but before John, it had been the cut and thrust of sceptical crime scene examiners and, yes, even Sally Donovan's acerbic sniping, before the full power of deductive insight was unleashed.

"Wait. Just think it through." Sherlock's comment made the Port detective turn in the doorway.

Sherlock used the red pen to underscore the phrase  _counting house_. "This is most likely to refer to the Customs House at the Port. And the implication is that there is some form of corruption going on. Perhaps someone there is on the take, willing to turn a blind eye to ships loaded with dodgy grain."

Tolhurst just threw up his hands in disgust. "Play your games with someone else, Mister Celebrity Detective. I'm done here." He stormed out of the briefing room, slamming the glass door behind him.

Greg stood up. "Okay, I'll admit that was fun watching you make mincemeat of him. But pissing him off is not good, Sherlock. We are guests here, and if he carries through with his threat, then Schaeffer will tell us to pack up and leave; he'd be well within his rights. So, you need to come up with some real evidence tonight, rather than conjecture."

Sherlock sighed, but then settled his shoulders. "Shall we continue?"

Donna stepped a little closer to Sherlock, almost as if to give him some comfort. "Of course we should continue. Who needs an idiot like him?" She turned back to the board. "But what are your ideas about the first and second victims? What links a Somali –no, wait, you said he was from Yemen and the Indonesian ship crew member to this rhyme?"

Sally spoke up. "And, what about the missing bits- Who is the  _maid_?" Who do you think the  _blackbirds_  are?

"That, Sergeant Donovan, is  _the_  question. The most important one. And I have no idea. Not yet, anyway. The only thing that the two crew men seem to share is that both were non-Western European Muslims. Assadi was killed by being beaten, and then drowned; Tahyadi was also beaten, but with a tyre iron."

Donna rubbed the back of her neck, looking down for a moment. She'd obviously been working all day alongside the Consulting Detective and was starting to feel exhausted. Greg felt for her- trying to keep up with Sherlock was not easy. Molly Hooper and John Watson had found a way over the years, but they both knew Sherlock well.

She pursed her lips a bit. "Unfortunately, I can't test either for ergotism- at least not without an exhumation order. The bodies were claimed by their ships crew members, and in accordance with Muslim tradition, they had to be buried as fast as possible. Luckily, the country's largest Muslim cemetery is not even twenty miles away, at Ilford in Essex. But we would need more than this fishy business to justify a judge granting an exhumation order."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think they are connected to the ergot or the rye. It's more likely that they have something to do with the black birds, given the placement of the feather in his effects." He was pacing, and began to mutter. "Missing something…something important…that's staring at us... right in the eye…..eye? Hmmm."

He ended one length and then turned on his heel and returned, coming right up to where Donna was standing, nearly colliding with her. He looked startled to see her in his path; she looked slightly alarmed. "What is it?"

"Fishy business." A broad smile erupted on his face. "The fish that was in West's pocket. It's the bit that doesn't fit the rhyme."

Lestrade leaned forward. "You said it was a sardine."

"So, I did. The other name for a sardine is a pilchard. And there is a particular Cornish dish called Stargazy _Pie_ , in which the whole fish is baked in the pie, but its head and tail stick up out of the pastry. A bit like the one staring out of the pocket of the murdered constable."

"Pie?" Donna drew a line on the white board with a green pen, from the words  _baked in a pie_  and added a bubble, then wrote in the word  _Pilchard_. Then she drew a line of question marks to the part of the rhyme that mentioned blackbirds, frowning. "But no fish are landed here at the port. That sort of stuff is handled at New Billingsgate."

Sherlock had gone over to one of the computer terminals and was clicking through something.

"Not pilchard.  _Stargazer_ , that's the clue. We just need to find the right ship."

Lestrade and Sally exchanged glances. Donna Foreman was standing at the board watching Sherlock with a knowing sort of smile, almost as if she'd gotten there before the consulting detective, and was glad to see him taking up the scent of the trail.


	5. Chapter 5

"Go home. There's no point in you staying. You are useless at computers, Lestrade."

"That's not fair!" Greg bristled. It was after midnight and his temper was starting to fray from lack of sleep.

"Life's not fair. Don't pretend I've exposed some deep secret; the whole force knows you're a Luddite."

Sally wasn't able to stifle a little chuckle, which he heard. Before he could comment, though, Sherlock turned to Sally and sniffed. "Don't poke fun at the IT illiterate, Sergeant Donovan. Can  _you_  manage an excel spreadsheet?" When she nodded, Sherlock set up another computer. "You didn't have anything better to do tonight, did you?"

"Sleep?" Greg heard the resignation in her voice; she must have guessed that this would be an all-nighter.

"No rest for the weary Sergeant." Sherlock sat down himself at her PC for a moment, and Lestrade watched over his shoulder as he blithely hacked into the HMRC system. He rolled his eyes.

"You do know that's illegal?"

"Of course, that's why I am doing it  _for_ her. It's also why I am sending you home. You can both deny everything. All my fault." He then switched seats with Sally and told her to input into a spreadsheet a list of every fine, every duty paid, every tax levied on each of the ships coming in that he and Donna were identifying. "And be sure to identify the person or persons responsible for each. That will create a list of suspects. You're after  _the king of the counting house_."

Lestrade decided to admit defeat. He was knackered and right now sleep seemed a pretty good option. "Walk me out, Sherlock." Greg needed to talk to him, in private.

Just outside the door of the station, before out into the darkness of the car-park, he stopped to light a cigarette.

"Got one for me?"

"No way. As you recently said, these things will kill you. I'd rather you lived; I'm still getting used to the novelty."

Sherlock snorted, his warm breath clouding in the misty cold. "Don't get  _too_  used to it. In my line of work, anything can happen."

Greg took a deep drag on the cigarette and then expelled the smoke. "That's what I want to talk to you about. I don't see any signs of Big Brother keeping tabs on you. Aren't you supposed to have an SO1 officer, or one of Mycroft's minions on your tail?"

"No. New deal. I managed two years without his nose in my business, so I'm good to go on that way."

Greg choked on the second pull of smoke into his lungs. "What do you mean,  _without_  him?"

Sherlock looked at him with that slightly puzzled wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. "What is difficult to understand in my previous statement? For the past two years, Mycroft didn't know where I was or what I was doing. He was officially side-lined. Recused. Told that if he dared to interfere, he'd lose his job."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade had assumed when Sherlock resurrected that his brother must have been in on the whole scheme. "So, it was your own idea? The fake suicide and all that?"

"Yes, of course." Then a slightly annoyed tone, "Why does everyone question my ability to do what I did?"

"It's just…" Greg struggled to put it into words. "…just so  _big_  a thing to do on your own."

That drew a glare. "Oh, and I'm not capable of  _big_  things?" The sarcasm was evident.

"I didn't mean it that way. Oh, hell- I don't know what I mean. I'm too tired to be making sense; I just know I'm pleased you're back. So, if I go home and get some shut eye, tell me that you won't do anything crazy while I'm not here."

"I don't do  _crazy_  things, Lestrade. Go home, get some sleep. You are being even thicker than usual. If you aren't going to share that cigarette, then I need to get back to work." He pushed the door back open and left Greg wondering what was going on.

He was finding the 'new' Sherlock harder to read than the old. For all his quirks and foibles, the old Sherlock was someone whom Greg had understood. The version that had come back from his own private war against Moriarty's network was a changed man. Quieter, more intense; his crime-solving now seemed to be driven by something other than the delight of the puzzle as it had once been.  _He's like tempered steel; harder, for having been through the fire._ As much as he had always worried about Sherlock in the past, Greg was even more worried now. This was a Sherlock without the counter-balance of John Watson. He'd always appreciated knowing that there was someone else keeping an eye on Sherlock. Even though the two men appeared to have made their peace, the fact that the doctor wasn't attending on this case raised Greg's level of concern.

Greg drew another deep lungful of smoke, hoping the nicotine would keep him awake for the drive back to the city. The stimulant must have been working, because he suddenly realised something that had been working away at his subconscious. Sherlock was now doing his cases as if to prove to himself- and others, perhaps John and Mycroft in particular- that he still could, but on his own,  _defiantly_  on his own. There seemed to be an undercurrent of anger running through Sherlock now. He put the cigarette out, stepping on it to be sure it was extinguished, and then unlocked the car. He fervently hoped that it wouldn't all end in tears.

oOo

Sherlock reached without looking, his eyes still glued to the screen. His fingers misjudged the distance and hit the half full cup of coffee, knocking it over.

"I'll mop up." His ear heard the words, but they didn't quite register with his brain, which was working on the cross-correlations.

Sherlock vaguely registered Donna leaving the room, but did not glance down at the pool of black liquid that was slowly making its way to the edge of the table. He keyed in the next ship name into the excel table. He was cross tabulating data on all the ships in the port on the thirty six hour window either side of the three murders: port of origin, last port of call, ownership and crew nationalities.

When she got back with paper towels from the ladies room, Donna wanted to know why he wasn't trying to do the same for the Lumad woman.

On autopilot, Sherlock heard himself answer in a rather vague tone, "No evidence she was on a ship. No date of arrival. No clear date of murder." Lumad woman was the outlier. He was sceptical about any connection between her and the Italian freighter whose packing case she'd been found in. Ergotism took at least two weeks to manifest. Add that to the decomposition levels, and it was likely that she had been in the port area for a minimum of three weeks. If they could identify a clearer range of dates for her arrival, then he might try at the end. But Ellicock's first cut at it two days ago had produced a very long list of ships.

And the list was already long enough without those. Although the average was about ten ships a day in the port, the figures varied a lot from day to day. Sometimes, all 16 independent terminals and 32 berths were full. Some ships took only hours to offload; others stayed for days, picking up new cargos before departure. The fields in the spreadsheets involved prior ports of call, cargos, ownership and history. He was looking for some clue that would link them to why the men had to die.

Some ships seemed to be permanent features of the docks, which was odd. The database Sherlock was building was also being cross-correlated with others. Once he had shown Donna the basic premise, he sat her sat down at another PC to wade through the grain terminal data. He told her to cross check with the Port Health Authority Records, to see what cargos had been tested and look for any anomalies. Sherlock told her to pay particular attention to the cargoes of rye, but anything else that stuck out should be noted, too. He wanted names, as well- the officers who had run the tests. "You're looking for  _the Queen with her bread and honey_."

Two hours later, Sherlock vaguely noticed that one of the two women got up and had a stretch, went to the loo, and came back with more coffee for all three of them. The next time, he noticed it was Sally who did the honours, putting the cup down near Sherlock's right elbow. He heard her warn, "Don't knock this one over."

He didn't move his eyes off the screen. He didn't want to interrupt his concentration to acknowledge her. He'd just reached an interesting cross-correlation. A number of ships were in port on all four occasions.

"Holmes? You in there? Or have you perfected the art of sleeping with your eyes open?"

 _Go away._  He was trying to scroll through the seven spreadsheets, all open on the same screen. In each of the murder periods, there were nine vessels that were always there. Others came and went.

He tried to ignore Sally as she came up behind him to look at the screen over his shoulder. "Bloody hell, can you actually read at that speed?"

 _I'm BUSY_. He could think it, but it was too much effort to say the words.

Probably annoyed at being ignored, she reached out and touched his shoulder, a bit tentatively.

He jerked away from her hand, his right arm flying off the mouse in a spasm, sending his coffee flying again.

"Oi! …you've made a mess  _again_!"

He looked up at her, confused and startled. "Why did you do that?"

"Just trying to get your attention; no need to freak out about it." Almost as soon as she said the dreaded F word, she tried to apologise. "I'm sorry; you know I didn't mean it  _that_  way. It's just that I got worried. You weren't responding."

Donna was back by his side now, mopping up again. "You really  _do_  concentrate. I respect that." She glared at Sally.

"I said I was sorry."

Sherlock took a deep breath and then stood up. He was feeling the effects of two days and nights without sleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice saying that sleep deprivation was not a wise idea at the moment. Why did it sound like Mycroft? For a moment, Sherlock lost sight of his surroundings, and found himself in his Mind Palace facing a brother wearing a knowing glower. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Sleep deprivation leads to…well, you know what, so why do you need me to remind you?" He growled at his brother, and then realised that the two women were staring at him. Donna looked worried; Sally looked annoyed.

"I need to move. And to think. That requires more oxygen than is in this overheated and stuffy room. I'm going outside. I don't suppose either of you have a cigarette?"

Sally shook her head. "I wouldn't dare- Lestrade would tell me off in no time flat."

"He's started smoking again. Hadn't you noticed?" He was already shrugging on his coat and tying his scarf. He was two steps from the door when he heard her mutter.

"Having you back has probably driven him to it."

He stopped dead in his tracks but didn't turn to face her. "You  _really_  don't like me, do you?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Holmes, I don't have to  _like_  you to respect your methods. If all this data crunching is going to lead to something, then I'll tolerate just about anything."

He thought about it, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Results are everything. As you've finished your spreadsheet, you can go home. Get some sleep. I'll need you to be capable of rational thought in the morning." He walked out before she could reply.  _I don't need you to like me, so long as you do your work._

When he returned thirty minutes later, it was to find Donna alone. She was sitting at his desk, going through his set of spread sheets.

He crossed his arms and looked at her properly, perhaps for the first time really observing now what until then he had only been seeing.  _My mistake_. "So, I was right."

She looked up, her eyes showing a little anxiety. "About what?"

"You're the one who laid the clues."

"That's absurd. What on earth makes you think that?" She tried to muster up some indignation.

He gestured to the board. "It's all too neat. Doesn't fit with the crimes. It's the work of someone who is clever, but not quite clever enough to cover their tracks. Too purposeful- like a plot from a bad detective novel. Real crime is generally much messier."

Donna sighed. "I should have known you'd see through it."

"When did you piece it together?"

She bit her lip. "I didn't. I haven't yet… I mean, I have an idea- that's all; just suspicions, but no way of putting them together."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Because someone on the force is involved, and I don't know who. I don't want to become another unexplained death."

"The king in the counting house? Not Her Majesty's Customs and Revenues then; rather, someone here in the police?"

"I think so. The bean counters just…well, they keep their distance. Someone in there is probably turning a blind eye for a bit of a back-hander, but I haven't been able to find anything more."

He nodded. "Tell me what you know, or suspect."

She gave a small smile. "But you already know. You must have deduced it while you were walking outside on the quayside. So, you tell me."

He tilted his head at the challenge; then decided to play along. "At first you would have been puzzled about the lack of progress on Assadi's death. Thought that the police were not taking your points seriously enough about the fight he put up. Your description yesterday suggested that you saw more than the police were willing to investigate."

He started to pace. "When Tahyadi turned up dead, this time clearly beaten to death, your suspicions grew- and your frustration with the police, too, I imagine. The Essex detectives were unable to shed any light- that was eight weeks in. Did you at the same time start getting suspicious about your own service? I wonder. If I had been in your place, I would have started snooping around to look at any interactions that occurred between the Port Health Authority and the two ships, the  _Adobia_  and the  _Glovis Cougar_. "

She grinned. "Yeah, I did that. Came up with cargo checks- there was the palm oil on the  _Glovis Cougar_ , and cocoa beans on the  _Adobia_. Both were passed by the same manager, Sharon Gillespie. So, I started looking at her other work. I tried to get the Port Health and Public Protection Director to take an interest. He's based at Walbrook Wharf in the City. He just told me to go to the police; they'd sort out if there were any issues. I took a risk and told PC West. I trusted Simon." Her smile faded. "And look what happened to him." She stopped, clearly distressed by what had happened to her friend.

Sherlock picked up the story again. "Before West was killed, there was the third murder- the unidentified woman. This one  _bothered_ you more than the others. Why?"

Donna spat out, "because they didn't give a damn. It was horrible. The Port Police treated her like some piece of rubbish that had floated into the dock. Tolhurst said she wasn't anything to do with us - and tried to pass the buck back to Italy. But, it's just like you said- a carton with a body instead of a fridge would have been discovered before it was shipped. These things are stacked, and the weight of a fridge on top would have crushed the box. No murderer would have taken the risk that it would be on the top. It's just random."

He leaned back on the adjacent desk, crossing his arms and really looked at her again as she recounted the tale. "So, what did you decide to do?"

"Well, I kept asking Simon if the police were making any progress. He told me that they'd agreed to put on more patrols, because the companies running the port terminals were getting antsy about things. He thought it was a waste of money, but agreed to do some because he was trying to build up a bit of a cash reserve. He was going to have to take paternal leave when his wife had the second baby; she wanted him to take more than the statutory two weeks. The force is short-staffed and they weren't too happy about it, so he figured that they might make him take some of it as unpaid leave."

She took a deep breath. "I hoped the Essex team would get to grips with the problem, but they were just as bad. The Chief- I don't think it's him, by the way- then said it was time to try the Met."

"That's when you decided to take things into your own hands."

She nodded. "When I heard that the Met had assigned a Murder Investigation Team headed up by Greg Lestrade- well it got me thinking. I'd read in the papers that you had returned, well, I guess I just thought maybe if I made the cases sound mysterious enough, he might ask you to get involved. I knew it was a risk, but I decided to plant some evidence. I managed to get the black feather into the first victim's box file, but I didn't have access to this room at all hours. Luckily, Simon did, so he was supposed to go to the briefing room after his patrol, in the middle of the night, and pin up on the board the bag full of rye, the fish and the coin. We thought that the Met team would find them at seven when they arrived, and call you."

"And then you were called to the crime scene and found your evidence, now placed on the constable's body."

She nodded. "It was so horrible. Whoever killed him – I think they were thrown by the fish. I had put it in a bag, but they took it out and then just stuck it back in his pocket. I think it was…I don't know, maybe a message to warn me or anyone they thought Simon might be working with. I'm not sure why they missed the rye, but maybe they didn't know that it was infected."

"Was the sample of rye from the  _Odessa Printessa_ , the ship that had come in that day to offload? "

She shook her head. "No. It came off another ship last month. It was the sample taken by Sharon Gillespie, and passed then as clean. By then I was suspicious enough to take the sample and analyse it myself. When I found it had the ergot fungus, I stored it as evidence. It would have been enough to put her under suspicion at least. And, as she is also the person who signed off on the  _Printessa_  cargo, there is a chance that the false clearance would be proved again when the new samples come back. I needed an excuse to get the police interested and aware of the rye being contaminated, and you gave it. It could be done without raising suspicions that I was the one behind it. I'm not brave, Mister Holmes."

"It's Sherlock. The other name makes me think you are talking to my brother. How much more do you know?"

Now she shook her head. "Nothing. That's the problem. I can't find the connection that puts these all together. I know there is corruption at the Port Health Authority, and I know the police are not taking this seriously. Sally's spreadsheet narrows the HMRC guy turning a blind eye down to one of five suspects. But even with a single name, added to Gillespie, It's still not enough. I know that my friend, Simon West, has paid with his life for my inability to put it together." She shook her head and sighed. "I have no idea how or even if it does come together. That's what I am counting on you to do, Mister…no,  _Sherlock_ , now it's your turn. What have you found as a result of your investigation so far?"

She looked at him in anticipation, and he decided then and there to trust her.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock walked back to the white board. He used the felt eraser to create space to the left of the nursery rhyme, deleting the annotated elements of the sixpence and the pocketful of rye. "We know what these are now, so it's safe to ignore them."

"Let's start with the first two victims." He wrote up their names. "According to the statements by their crew members, they were both described as 'good Muslims'. That's what the bad translation of the handwritten statements said; the actual words used in Arabic were مسلم ممارس.. That means ' _practicing_  Muslim'. That's important, as we will see. Did you realise that Assadi was killed on a Friday, and so was Tahyadi?"

Her eyebrows went up. "No, I just remember the dates and that it was a weekday."

"To you, maybe. To them, the Sabbath. It is important that seafaring Muslims attend a mosque when they are in port- and Friday prayers are crucial, so they would have made an effort to go. The nearest mosque is across the Thames, in Gravesend- a convenient fifteen minute walk from the ferry. So, let us assume that they made the journey."

He walked to the side wall and a large scale Port map. "The  _Adobia_  was berthed here." He pointed to the map. " Riverside Upper. The  _Glovis Cougar_  was berthed here, across from New Branch 39. Not exactly convenient for the ferry, if my assumption is right that they can't cross the lock on foot."

She nodded. "yeah, the panamax is closed to any kind of pedestrian traffic."

"So, in both cases, a crew member on shore leave would be forced to walk the long way around to the ferry terminal." He traced with his finger the route. "Given their time constraints- and needing to catch the ferry that left every half hour, they would take the shortest route possible."

She leaned over his shoulder. "So, you're saying they wouldn't have gone by the road, but rather taken short cuts?"

He nodded. "Here." He pointed to a corridor between warehouses, crane systems and the fuel depot. "They'd hug the dockside, and come down this way. It would mean both would pass the three docks- the West, the Central and the East branches."

Oh." It was breathed rather than spoken. "So, you think they saw something on their walk? Something that got them killed?"

"It's a logical assumption. It's also likely that both were killed on the return journey."

"Why? Does it matter?"

"Time of day matters. The person who answered the phone at the Mosque remembered them. They do get crewmen attending; it's just easier for them to remember the two who managed to get killed after attending the mosque. And they did remember them. So, definitely on the way home. At this time of the year, the last service on Fridays is at sunset, and there are social activities that happen afterwards, so the imam said it wasn't likely that they would have left until after eight. It would be pitch dark on the water."

"What did they see?"

"That is the question. To use your analogy, I think they saw the  _four and twenty blackbirds._ "

"I didn't mean anything by that; it's just a nonsense part of the rhyme. I planted the feather to make it look like there was something more."

"Unwittingly, you may have actually put your finger on something. Let's look at Assadi's journey. The location of his body in the water is key. He died here." He tapped the water beside the cruise ship terminal on the Central branch. "The tide was coming in at the time of death, and did not turn for an hour, maybe an hour and a half. That's where I walked when I went out just now. The current's slow because you control the water levels by using the locks, closing them at some point in the move to the lowest tide. That means low tide inside the port is much higher than outside in the mainstream. So the tide would have moved him only a small distance toward the main branch before it turned and started to push him back. Even so, the rate of moment back into the dock is slower, because it's a dead end. Odds are, he did not end up very far from where he was killed."

She started to chuckle. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"You have less experience with bodies in water."

"Thank God." Then she looked up at the white board. "What about Tahyadi? His body was found on the southern dock, down by the channel ferries."

He shook his head. "We all agreed that he wasn't killed at the spot he was found. That would be off the direct route to the ferry. It was a body dump. All we can surmise from the data is that it is probably he would have walked the path back from the ferry to the New Branch berth of his ship. That means it is possible that he saw something that led to his death. The spreadsheet shows that there were nine vessels in common. That is, the ships were here on the  _both_  days that there was a murder." He was now on his feet again and walking to the board. He uncapped the purple felt tip and began to write.

_Emeraude France_

_MS Gemini_

_Lady Aileen_

_Londinium III_

_Patrol_

_Ross Revenge_

_Marco Polo_

_MS European Seaway_

_Morning Linda_

She shook her head. "We can delete some of those straight away."

"Tell me why."

"Well, the  _Lady Aileen_  and the  _Londinium_   _III_  are the Port Health Authority launches. They're part of the furniture here, most likely to be in port here or moving up and down the river. They're small and fast- designed to get us to and from the ships moored on the Thames as opposed to in port."

"What do you do inside the port?"

"We have a rigid inflatable. It's not fast, but it doesn't need to be inside the docks."

"Outboard motor?"

"Yep, just a little two stroke."

Sherlock wrote under the list a new name-  _RIB_  - then underscored it and the  _Lady Aileen and_ the  _Londinium_   _III_  in blue.

"And you can delete  _Patrol_ , too. That's a pilot ship; usually moving up and down the river berths, but sometimes goes downstream maybe as far as Canvey or upstream to the oil terminal."

He underscored it in blue. "What about the others?"

"Most of these are permanently moored in the port- laid up vessels. The  _Seaway_  is a ferry that's been here since 2013. The  _Emeraude_  is also a ferry- a high speed cat that's been laid up here since 2007. The  _Ross Revenge_  is an old fishing trawler that used to be the Radio Caroline ship- she's been here since 2004. There's a fan club and everything; they've been restoring her and she was in a film last year called  _Pirate Radio_. Then the  _Gemini_ \- well that again is a cruise ship that's been laid up for a couple of years. Some dispute about ownership." She gave a sad smile. "It's kind of like Tilbury's turned into a naval elephant graveyard. They stick them in here when no one wants them but they're too valuable yet to be scrapped."

"That's interesting, very interesting. Would they be manned?"

She looked askance. "The  _Ross Revenge_  is different- that's got people on it all the time; the fan club runs sort of nostalgia theme weekends. The  _Gemini_  was last used during the Olympics- a sort of floating hotel for the event security staff. But in the past year, it's been just the two security officers. None of the laid up ships is ever totally empty. The owners put a two or three man team on, so there's someone on shift all the time. The ships are a pretty significant asset, so they keep them locked up tight. Alarms on doors, that sort of thing."

"Would they have power then?"

"Well, the engines aren't running, if that's what you mean. They will be running off batteries. Each berth has an electricity supply. Once on station, they plug in and turn off the engines. It reduces environmental impact, and is cheaper for the owners. they just get light and heat into the spaces used by the security team."

He tapped the pen on the white board. "If we delete your work horses and the laid up vessels, that leaves the  _Morning Linda_  and the  _Marco Polo_."

Donna nodded. "The  _Linda_  is a laid up vehicle carrier, too. Panamanian registered, but her owners went bust in 2011. She's being held here because there's some law suit or other- creditors fighting over the break up, and the administrators are keeping her here, protected by UK courts. The  _Marco Polo_  is a regular cruise ship; she's in and out of Tilbury anywhere between two and five times a month."

"Talk to me about cruise ships. Not just the  _Marco Polo_  and not just on these dates."

"Why?"

"Because they are important. Perhaps even more important than the others."

Her eyebrows went up at that. "Most people don't realise that Tilbury is a significant port of departure for the cruise industry. We get the Fred Olsen ships here- that's  _Braemar_  and  _Blackwatch_. Plus the  _Seabourn Legend_. And the  _Silversea_  luxury ships, too, at different times. The  _Marco Polo_  is run by Cruise and Maritime Voyages, takes 800 passengers. She's the most active cruise liner in the port, because she's based here year round. Why do you think they might be important?"

He circled the  _Morning Linda_ , the  _Gemini_ , and the  _European Seaway_  in red. "Which of these is closest to the cruise ship terminal?"

She shrugged. "The  _Linda_  is the furthest. The  _Gemini_  is closest, but the  _Seaway_  is only about another 1,000 meters down the southern dock from her."

"Do you have access to the small RIB?"

"Sure. And I use it regularly to get out to the ships for testing when there's a queue at the cranes or terminals. They just hold station mid-water and I go to them. The RIB is tied up at the east branch. Why?"

"Because you and I are going on a little boat trip."

"At this hour?!"

"Best time of all to be snooping around. The docks are brightly lit, but the water is not. Ship traffic is non-existent. It's low tide and the lock is closed, so nothing is coming in or going out. A small inflatable, with a small motor, will hardly be noticed. But before we do that, I need to check the visual lines of sight. Is there a ship at the cruise terminal tonight?"

"The  _Braemar_. She's between cruises at the moment; a three day lay-over. Still busy, though. the Fred Olsen company rents out the cabins to tourists wanting cheap accommodation near to London. For the cost of half a horrid B &B in town, they get the luxury facilities of the ship. It's a ten minute walk to the train station and a thirty minute trip into Fenchurch Street."

"Good. That will do nicely; she can stand in for all the other cruise liners. Have you got a good pair of binoculars I can borrow?"

He sent her across the road to get her binoculars, the boat keys and her dark wool coat- and to open her computer there and find whatever she could on Sharon Gillespie. "Whatever you've put together on her, and a personnel file would be useful, too. Send it to me by email, and I will meet you at the western branch in just under an hour."

While she was gone, he put all of the spreadsheets into a single workbook, wrote up his notes, his hypothesis and the audit trail. Looking back at the number of cruise ships departing over the past year, he was staggered at the scale of the operation he was just beginning to understand. He bundled them into an annotated zip file and sent it by email to both Lestrade and Donovan. He did the same to the personnel file when it came across by email.

Finally, Sherlock hauled up everything he could find on the MS Gemini. Deck plans, hull design- the works. Because the ship was for sale, the details were readily available. He devoured them at a rate of knots.

An hour and ten minutes later they were standing at the end of Western branch looking across at the cruise terminal on the central dock. Sherlock estimated that it would be the likeliest route of the two dead crewmen on their way to the ferry terminal. He stood under the bright orange lights and was focusing the binoculars on the side of the  _Braemar_.

Donna's curiosity made her fidget. "What are you looking for?"

He focused the binoculars on the side of the ship facing the water. "Looking for service doors on the side away from the dock and close to the waterline."

"WHY?"

He detected a little impatience building up in the ME, and decided to explain a bit more. "Think of this as a working hypothesis. There is one set of goods that is extremely valuable and worth more than anything else that might be smuggled into the warehouses. I am not talking about a bit of dodgy grain, however awful ergotism is."

"Drugs?"

"Valuable, but not the highest value per unit type of contraband."

"What- guns?" She sounded worried.

"No.  _People."_

"People? As in illegal immigrants?"

"Not just your common or garden variety of economic migrant. Not even a sex worker. There is one category of illegal which is extremely profitable to the trafficker."

"You've lost me."

"Domestic servants."

"You're joking."

"Not in the slightest. The trade in illegal female domestic servants is hugely profitable. They are conned into paying their way from countries in northern and eastern Africa, thinking they will be getting respectable jobs when they get here. Instead, they are sold to the highest bidder, and their papers are taken from them, if they had any in the first place. They speak no English. They are told that they will be deported if they leave the house without authorisation. They become prisoners- a 24/7 workforce where no wages need be paid ever- for the rest of their working lives. A one-off payment for decades of work? Cheap at the price. They have no legal rights; they don't exist in the eyes of the law. The man of the house routinely sexually abuses them; the woman of the house works them to death, using threats, beatings and drugs to control them."

"That's  _slavery_."

"Yes. And it happens in Britain. Wealthy foreign families- many from the Middle East- are willing to pay more than fifty thousand pounds for one of these hapless creatures- to look after their children, cook, clean and do all the things that they would otherwise have to pay minimum wages for if the workers were legal in the UK. The husbands pay for it because it is cheaper and safer than using prostitutes. They buy them young and keep them in thrall for years. If they get sick, they get dumped. When they get old, they get kicked out. If they get bored with them, they sell them on. In the eyes of the owners, it is money well spent."

"That's appalling. Is that what the poor Lumad woman was here for? Maybe she got sick because of ergotism, so they killed her and dumped her body?"

"More likely she wouldn't have been for sale. Muslim buyers want Muslim slaves in their houses; protects them from being around something  _haram_  or unclean. No, the ergotism suggests she was kept here for longer- two to eight weeks for the symptoms to emerge, remember? If the symptoms became visible here, then it's more likely that she was used to look after the others. Sadly, she's best thought of as _the Maid_  who got her nose pecked off."

"God, that bloody rhyme! Never thought it would apply so well." She looked at the cruise ship. "Why Tilbury- why not Southampton? There are more cruise liners down there than here."

"Tilbury is unique amongst British ports in that you have co-located cruise and cargo berths. Southampton has a separate dock for cruise ships. So does Dover. Tilbury has a regular number of vessels coming in from north and eastern Africa. If each one was to carry stowaways, then it will form a significant pool of talent. Think of Tilbury as a terminal where these refugees are gathered, processed, given false papers and sold. It's also a fact that many of the top priced cabins on cruise liners out of Tilbury are purchase by very wealthy foreign families- they  _love_  cruising. And what better place to pick up a useful servant? A family with one servant gets on board at the start, a family with two servants gets off when the boat returns. No one bats an eye, because the fake visas are passed by a bent Borders Agency official. There are more than enough opportunities, given the number of ships that come in here." He handed her the binoculars.

"Take a look at the hatch. You can hardly see it. I think the latest consignment might have come into Tilbury yesterday when the Liberian-registered  _Rio Tamara_ docked. Last port of call was Casablanca, where they could pick up some fresh supplies of women. They'll have imprisoned them on the  _Gemini_  for a couple of days- until the  _Braemar_  sails day after tomorrow. Interestingly, that voyage is to St Petersburg, so there may well be some Russian oligarch customers, too. They will probably move them across tomorrow night, ready to meet their new owners when they come aboard."

She looked horrified. "Can it be that simple?" She looked around the dock as if seeing the place for the first time.

"Simple? Yes. Profitable?  _Very_. If one refugee servant can command a price of £50,000, then it only takes twenty to make a million. Say ten went on each cruise; that's over seven hundred women a year. That's £35 million plus. More profit margin than drugs, less dangerous than guns."

"Oh my god, I never imagined. Is that what you think the two murdered men saw?"

" _Four and twenty black birds, baked in a pie_. You didn't realise that you were being prophetic. They might even have been wearing black burqas when they were transferred to the cruise ships. That might have caught the crew men's attention, and they were killed for it."


	7. Chapter 7

"Hold on tight- the metal ladder gets slippery at this time of year."

Donna was down in the inflatable, calling up at the consulting detective now coming down from the dockside. The tide was not at its lowest, that had passed a few hours ago. But even so, it was a long way up to the quayside. As the consulting detective descended the ladder, the orange light that had shown him clearly at the top grew dimmer. She felt better when the boat moved under the weight of a new passenger. He passed her at the motor end and then sat in the middle, facing her. "Is this okay, or do you want me further forward?" He spoke quietly but clearly. In the darkness, it was hard for her to see his face.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. I see what you meant about it being dark down here. We don't make ship visits at night, so I'm not on the water after dark. I can hardly see you, and I know you are less than two meters away." Other than her voice, the only other sound down here was the lapping of the water against the rubber sides and the concrete dock. Above them, the quayside would be busier. Even this late, the cranes on New Branch would be working. Lorries and goods trains were always on the move on the roads that ringed the outside of the dock area.

"That's the whole point. Down here at night, no one is looking for a small inflatable craft with no running lights. Just the sort of thing to move a precious cargo to the cruise ships."

He'd argued that they tackle the  _Gemini_  first. "On the principle that it is closest- and it's the only one that has a clear line of sight from its berth to the Cruise terminal berth. And it would be easier to hide illegal immigrants on it than it would the catamaran or the ferry, neither of which is kitted out for overnight journeys. Lockable cabins make better prisons."

Donna pulled the cord on the small outboard motor. When it failed to catch on the third pull, she asked Sherlock if he had a torch. The small inflatable boat shifted as he came down to her end, shining a small pocket torch. She had already opened the fuel reservoir and now used the torch to peer in.

"A bit low on petrol, but it should still be enough at the speed we'll be going."

"Let me try." Sherlock knelt and gave the cord a sharp pull. The two stroke motor roared into life, sounding hideously loud to their ears. She quickly cut the choke and throttled back the revs, so the motor was just barely turning over. He went back to his seat, but this time faced away from her. She cast off and moved the clutch from neutral into forward gear. Slowly, they moved away from the quayside.

Sherlock shifted in the seat, putting one of his long legs over onto her side, so he was sideways on to her position at the stern. This way she realised they could talk and be heard.

Donna giggled. "I should have asked if you know how to swim."

"Yes. That is, I do know how to swim. And I have used boats like this before, too."

"Good. Even so, you should be wearing a life jacket."

"No-the jackets are reflective. We need to be invisible if we are going to get close enough to see without being seen."

The little engine putt-putted quietly, as they went down the 200 meter Eastern Branch dock and then turned into the main water that ran in a south-western direction. It was cold; the forecast had predicted freezing temperatures, and there was a stiff breeze. She was glad to be wearing gloves. Across the dark expanse, Donna could see their target- the  _Gemini_.

As they came closer, Sherlock made a hand gesture that Donna took to mean ahead slow, so she throttled the motor back until it was scarcely turning over. Still, their forward momentum took them alongside. That was the joy of an inflatable- no loud bangs, just the bump of rubber, as they came to the waterline hull entrance at mid-ship. This was the part that she didn't understand- how would Sherlock get on board through a watertight and sealed entrance?

"Can you hold position here?"

She pushed the lever to neutral. "What are you proposing to do?  _Knock?"_

That drew a chuckle in the darkness. "Not exactly, but near enough."

"Are you crazy?!"

"No. Where's the boat toolkit?"

"Under the seat."

Through the murk, she saw the small torch beam come on, and then realised he was holding it between his knees, while rootling through the box.

"Ah- hah!" He sat up, and picked up the torch to shine it on what he had been looking for- a rather large metal screwdriver and a roll of duct tape. "Now the tricky bit. How quickly will it take you to scoot around the stern so we can't be seen by anyone opening the hatch?"

She peered through the darkness. "It'll be quicker if I turn around. It depends on how loud I can let the motor go."

"We need to be around the stern when they open the hatch."

Donna was thoroughly confused, but gave it her best guess. "At low throttle, maybe two or three minutes; half that if we are prepared to make more noise."

"Good, unless they are literally standing by the door, it should take them that long to get down here."

"Sherlock- it'll take a lot longer than that, even if they could hear a bang on the door- which I sincerely doubt. The security team will be split. There'll be the one on shift who is up on the bridge; the other one will be bunked down- and probably asleep. That's eight decks above for the one on duty – and probably several for the one who's asleep, assuming he heard it in the first place, which is extremely unlikely."

"You are assuming that no one else is on board."

She manoeuvred the inflatable around so it was now facing the stern, but still beside the hatch, which was no more than a meter above the waterline.

"Right- now I need your phone."

"What for?"

"I'll explain in a minute."

She handed it over, and then watched as he turned it on, and then turned his own phone on. The light from the phones was surprisingly bright in the darkness. He was tapping her number into his phone. He then started flipping through her apps. He must have found what he was looking for, because he tore off strips of duct tape, and placed them over the back of the phone.

"I'm going to stand up."

He was giving her fair warning, but the RIB was pretty stable. Then he leaned over to the hull and taped her phone to the door, as far up as he could reach.

"Okay. Are you ready?"

"Wait, Sherlock- what are you going to do?"

"What happens if you try to break the seal around a watertight door in a ship's hull?"

"You set off an alarm. Oh- you  _want_  them to open the door? Why?"

"Because who opens the door and how long it takes them to get down here will tell us everything we need to know about who's on board."

"Who do you think is on board?"

"The  _Gemini_  is the perfect place to keep the gang's supply of illegal immigrants 'stored' in inside cabins- probably locked in the crew quarters below the waterline. They will be ready and available for the next cruise ship and their buyers to show. If the door alarm is answered quickly, then we will know that someone is keeping a close watch down on this deck or the one above. The only reason they would do that is if the women are in there."

"What's my phone got to do with it?"

He smirked and leaned back to show her his own phone. It was running a video of them- as seen from her phone's camera. "Nearly live feed- it's transferring it to my phone every three seconds. When they open the door it will be pulled inward and should show us who has answered the alarm. That will tell us a lot."

She was struck by how carefully he'd thought it all out. "Um, won't they know that someone has figured it out- the phone taped to the door will give it away."

"Yes; that's probable."

"And why do you think that is a good idea?" She wondered what the logic was of telling the criminals that someone knew about the ship's illegal cargo of women.

"Because by then we will know who they are and have the evidence we need to get a warrant. When they realise that they've been spotted, then they might be panicked into getting the women off the ship as quickly as possible. They can't take them off this way, because they will know they are being watched, even if they rip the phone off the door. That will stop them from lowering a life boat and trying to use that. Even if they try to contact Sharon Gillespie to get access to the RBI- it won't work because we're in it. They will have to go out the front door onto the dockside. They can't walk them down the gangplank without getting caught on CCTV, so they'll have to organise some sort of lorry or cargo transport that can be explained. That buys time to get the Met in place. I'll send the video file to Lestrade and tell him to get a team down here as soon as we know who's on board. If it goes according to plan, they'll be less able to use the women as hostages."

"Oh." It sounded all very logical.

"Here we go." Sherlock inserted the big screwdriver into the gap between the bottom of the metal door and the hull. It was protected by watertight rubber seals, but with enough force, Donna knew that the pressure would become uneven, and an alarm would be set off.

Sherlock braced his feet against the middle board of the seat. "Increase the motor speed- I need more pressure."

She opened the throttle a bit, and the boat fought against being held back by Sherlock and his screwdriver.

"More!" He was starting to strain from the effort of bracing the boat.

She gave it more, and heard him gasp as the boat kicked against the obstacle. The motor sounded terribly loud in Donna's ears; she just hoped no one else was down on the water.

"Again!" He was shouting now to be heard over the roar of the two-stroke. She opened the throttle further. Then suddenly the RIB jerked forward and Sherlock collapsed. The screwdriver had snapped off, leaving the metal bar of the tool left stuck in the door. They were meters away by the time she killed their speed, and the forward momentum carried them further from the door with every passing second.

"Are you alright?" She could see, even in the darkness, that Sherlock had not sat up again. "Sherlock?"

"Yes. Just bruised and a bit winded. Can you circle back? I need to see what else I can use."

As she finished the loop that brought them back up alongside the door, Sherlock suddenly shouted "Stop!" She throttled back all the way, and threw it into neutral. "Do you hear that?"

She strained to block out the sound of the two-stroke. Then she heard it – an alarm going off, on the other side of the door.

"Hurry- we may not have much time!"

She threw the motor into forward gear and opened the throttle wide. If they were lucky, they'd get around the stern in time.

Sherlock was already sitting up, hunched over his phone when they got around the stern. She killed the engine instantly, and steered them into the back side of the ship. She felt safer here. Given the overhang of the decks above, no one would be able to see them down here- and there were no cabin windows either- only the big lounges- and they were high enough up that no one would be able to see them tucked in close to the stern.

"Let me see." She spoke very softly, now aware of the noises out on the harbour that she had been unable to hear over the motor. He shifted and came to sit beside her. They both focused on the tiny phone screen, which was showing what could be seen looking out from the hatch.

"Look," she whispered. "You can see the  _Braemar_. It's that pool of light over there."

"Hmm."

Then, suddenly, the picture seemed to jump and jerk about. The video camera's microphone picked up and transmitted metallic noises and the hiss of a seal giving way. Then the view swung away from the water and Donna could see inside the  _Gemini_  entrance way. She caught glimpses of a dark-skinned man in a grimy white T shirt as the door was made fast. Then he came into full view, his attention focused on the edge of the opening out onto the water. He held a radio of some sort and was talking into it- fast and furious.

"What language is that?"

"Tagalog. Spoken in the Philippines. Shhh. I'm trying to listen."

"Isang bagay ay nasira ang selyo."

She nudged him. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes. He just told the other person that the seal is damaged. The metal shaft that broke off will have fallen into the water when the door was opened. Luckily, he hasn't noticed the phone yet."

The radio crackled into life. "Hindi kami gumagalaw sinuman ngayong gabi, kaya i-lang-off ang alarma at isara ang pinto."

Sherlock grunted. "That's our confirmation. He just said that they aren't moving anyone tonight. He told him to turn the alarm off and shut the door."

In the light cast by the phone, Donna saw him smile. "That, with the rest of the evidence will be enough to get a warrant." He tapped the recording app and sent it with a text to Lestrade.

"How long will we have to wait before we can set off? If we do it before the door is shut, he will see us."

Sherlock nodded. "Let's see if it's shut." He re-opened the link. The image shown wasn't of the harbour; it was of a face, looking puzzled. A hand came up to touch the camera, and then the video picked up the man standing back, still staring but this time speaking into his radio.

"Boss, may gansal-stuck ng isang bagay sa pinto."

Donna swore. "Look- He's spotted the phone."

The radio crackled back into life. "Turn off the bloody lights, you moron! You can be seen half way across the harbour!"

There was a gasp, and the man turned to look out the open door before sprinting back across the screen. Then the screen went dark.

"Sherlock! That was Tolhurst on the radio- I am sure of it!" Donna was terrified. "Where is he that he could see the open hatch? Has he seen us?"

"Good question. But I don't know the answer. We need to get hidden from the harbour side. If we're lucky, we won't have been seen."

"We don't dare start the motor- it will be heard if he's anywhere near. Use the oar- it's clipped to the right side in front of the seat."

The boat rocked as he moved forward. She watched as Sherlock fumbled briefly in the dark and then pulled the oar free. He knelt by the left side and started to paddle. "Keep the propeller turned so I can push us along, using the hull."

She slid back into the pilot's seat, and turned the outboard so it worked like a rudder. They bumped slowly along the backside of the ship. They were about ten meters away from the dock. Unfortunately, the stern was rather squared off, so there would be no way to hide the inflatable around the bend, between the dock and the hull, until they got quite close to the dock. That left them exposed. Donna's panic rose when she realised what she was hearing behind her, across the water.

"We've got to hurry. That's the launch- the  _Lady Aileen_ ; I recognise her motor!"

The launch's engine was much more powerful than theirs was- and they had no constraints about being heard. She pulled the outboard far to the right as the nose of their inflatable cleared the stern and Sherlock was paddling like mad. Then she saw the beam of light playing across the water, searching them out.  _Shit._

Her worst fears were confirmed when she saw the light catch on their wake, and then follow it up to the stern. The rest of the boat, and her own body were now behind the bulk of the hull, but the rear, including the motor might still be visible. The sound of the launch's motor suddenly deepened into a roar, and she knew they'd been seen. As the boat came closer, the searchlight suddenly caught them. Ahead of them, in the space between the dock and the ship looming above, she could now see the gangway to the main dock-side entrance. It was about twenty feet in front of them, and on it was standing a man with a machine gun.

She turned to look behind them, and saw the launch was now blocking the way. They were caught- like rats in a bottle.

Sherlock had stopped paddling, but the inflatable's forward momentum brought them closer to the man with the gun.

"Itaas ang mga kamay!"

Sherlock put the paddle back in the boat and raised his hands. Donna did the same. Their deductive trail had come to a dead-end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you do speak Tagalog, then my apologies- Google translate is total rubbish!


	8. Chapter 8

Greg Lestrade was a heavy sleeper. It had always been the case. When he was married, the phone calls that came in the night were almost invariably answered by Louise. A long-suffering sigh would accompany the rough push of his shoulder. "It's your bloody job again."

So, when he got divorced and started to live on his own, he had no choice but to download an app that would boost the volume of the ring tone. And every night, before he turned off the light, he turned the app on.

Except the one night when he got home so late that it was early. The drive back from Tilbury to his flat in north London had been quick enough- not much traffic coming in from the east. Once he got past Canary Wharf, it was plain sailing. Which was just as well, because he was well and truly cream crackered*.

He stripped off his clothes, slid into his pyjamas and under the duvet half asleep. He didn't remember his head hitting the pillow.

Three hours later, he woke to the sound of someone pounding on the door. With bleary eyes, he staggered down the hall and peered through the peep-hole to see an anxious looking Sergeant on the other side. Sally had clearly dressed in a hurry, throwing on what looked to be jeans. He realised that in all the years they'd been working together, he'd never seen her in jeans before.

He slipped the chain off, undid the dead bolt and threw open the door.

"What's happened?" Greg could see the worry in her eyes.

"You weren't answering your phone- I've been ringing for the past twenty minutes. We need to get back to Tilbury."

Adrenaline collided with exhaustion to cut off the yawn he had started. "Why?  _What's happened?_ "

"He sent you a zip file- cc'd me into it, thank God. I read the top lines and I just know he's going to go stick his nose into something dangerous. I should never have left him."

"Why did you?"

"Because I finished what I was doing and he told me to go home. I should have realised he was trying to get rid of me."

That brought a little smile to Greg's face. He opened the door wider and let her in. "Still babysitting?"

She huffed. "He won't answer his phone. Guv, I can tell you more in the car, but you've got to believe me, this is big, really big. And he won't be able to resist."

Greg disappeared into his bedroom to put clothes on. "Tell me more," he shouted. Greg pulled on his trousers, and started to slip his shoes on.

She stood outside the bedroom, her back against the hall wall, so he had privacy but could still hear her. "He thinks it's a human trafficking system. We're talking hundreds of people- but not guys looking for work. It's women, domestic slaves. He estimates 700 a year, maybe more- worth £35 million, being sold to rich Arabs and other foreigners."

For a moment, Greg thought his sleep-fuddled brain might have heard the figure wrong. "HOW much?"

"Minimum thirty five mil- maybe as much as fifty in a year, because Sherlock didn't have all the fines and fees stuff that I took home with me."

" _Bloody hell."_ This came out as a shocked whisper. Then more urgently, Greg came out of the bedroom still tucking his shirt in, carrying a warm pullover. "Did you call the station house? Maybe the night desk officer can get him to answer his phone- or try to stop him until we get there."

"Yeah, I called. He said that Foreman left an hour ago, and then Sherlock about a half hour ago. That's why I called you."

"Let's try Tolhurst. He might be closer."

"Uh, no way, Guv. I think the guy's part of the problem, not the solution."

"Why?! Look, I know he's a prat, but…"

"Don't know; call it…women's intuition. Sherlock doesn't trust him, so I don't think we should."

He pulled the sweater on and then popped his head out. "You think Tolhurst is bent?"

"Yeah….yes, I do. I'll tell you why in the car."

She drove, while he tried to wake up. It was still pitch black, and would be for almost three hours. It was 5.45am, and he was having a distinct case of déjà vu, as Sally drove down the City Road to the A13. Only this time, the blue lights were going and she was going straight across the intersections, no matter what the lights said. At this hour, traffic was light, so the 25 mile journey shouldn't take them the 45 minutes it did two days ago. At least he hoped not. Greg was picking up on her anxiety levels. Sally Donovan was a pretty cool customer. She could usually handle stress without too much effect, but he could see her knuckles were tight on the steering wheel and she was focusing, as if someone's life might depend on it.

 _Maybe it does._  "What do you think he'll do? What did you three discover after I left?"

"I was working on the HMRC stuff. I think that's how they're laundering the money. Moving the dirty through customs and port fees; makes it invisible. I'd narrowed it down to five, maybe six suspects who are cooking the books to hide the smugglers' proceeds. But I didn't realise either the scale of the money involved or that it was earnings from slavery. If I had, I would have stayed."

"You're taking this personally, Donovan. Why?"

"Maybe because they're women of  _colour_ , Guv. I'm just programmed to hate the idea of slavery. Everyone's known this has been going on for years, but no one wants to prosecute. Too many rich people buying privacy for their despicable habits. Even when some poor wretch manages to escape, nine times out of ten, the home office jumps on them and says- 'failed asylum seeker' and boots them out. Did you know that two years ago, the UK took  _away_  the right of a domestic worker to leave their employer? They're all on tied visas now- 20,000 a year are issued, and these women have no rights at all. The Met was only able to get three successful convictions last year.  _Three_ …just three lousy convictions. If they report abuse, or try to run away, they get deported, and the owners get off scott-free. It's outrageous."

"Okay, I get that. But why do you think that Sherlock's going to do something crazy? I mean what can he do in the middle of the night? For all we know, he left the station and went home."

She shook her head. "No. It's been a while, but I know that look, the one he gets when he's figured it out, but won't tell anyone yet. You're the one who said he had to get the  _proof_  to stop Tolhurst kicking us off the case. I think he's going to go try and find the illegals- that's why he was working so damn hard on figuring out the ships that have been in port on all the murders. Oh- something else. The file had info about cargo ships that had delivered stuff over the past three days- most of them are still in the Thames, heading back east. He highlighted one- it hadn't reached Canvey yet. The kind of people who are protecting a £35 million pound business are not going to fool around- and he's only one guy. No contest, is it, Guv? But, Sherlock's crazy enough to try it, knowing him."

She had a point. Her assessment collided with his earlier thought that Sherlock was trying to prove he could do it all on his own. He closed his eyes as she shot onto the East India Dock Road overpass, cars joining the A13 from the A117 scattering like scalded cats from the siren and lights.

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his coat, and he instantly wondered who would be calling at this ungodly hour. The caller ID came up and he breathed a sigh of relief. "It's a text from Sherlock." He read it aloud, so Sally could get the gist, too. "Gemini is the slave ship. Use this to get warrant ASAP, before girls are moved."

"What's 'this'?"

"A video clip. Let me play it." He watched as the camera jerked away from a scene of the harbour and then moved to inside what appeared to be a ship door. There was an Asian looking man talking in some language on a radio, then a reply in the same language. A moment passed and then an English voice shouted out of the radio, telling them to shut the door.

Sally's reaction to what she could hear was immediate. "Shit, that's Tolhurst. Told you the guy was involved! Guv, we can't count on  _anyone_  at the port. There's someone bent at the Border Agency  _and_  the Health Authority, too. We just don't know who to trust."

Greg wondered how the hell Sherlock had managed to get the video, but however he'd done it, the result was that he was likely to be too close to the action. If there were women on board, then this was a hostage situation. He rang Sherlock's number, hoping that his habit of keeping the phone on vibrate was still his standard practice. He had no wish to alert the criminals to Sherlock's whereabouts. "Come on, pick up." On the fifth ring, he gave up and texted:

**05.27 Stay out of it! Back-up on the way.**

"Right- we need to call in the cavalry. If the Port people can't be trusted then we'll get the Met helicopter to meet us at Tilbury. I'm alerting the Kent & Essex Marine Units. This is downstream of Dartford and we'll need their help if anything is going on outside of the port."

Greg started wondering whether he should call Mycroft.  _But since when has he ever been able to stop Sherlock?_ "Put your foot down, Donovan. You're right, we need to get there before he does something crazy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "cream crackered" = "knackered", a cockney rhyming slang version of the word that means totally exhausted. Now in Londoner's general usage.


	9. Chapter 9

Donna was trying to move her wrists to keep the circulation flowing, but the band of the plastic ziplock handcuff was cutting in deeply. Each flex brought a fresh stab of pain and the warm trickle of what she guessed would be blood. She couldn't tell for sure because her hands were tied behind her back. There was absolutely no give at all. Her ankles were similarly restrained.

 _At least I'm conscious._  Sherlock was lying out face down on the metal deck beside her. They were under a tarpaulin that had been thrown over the pair of them. She could barely hear their captors' movements above the sound of the engine, amplified as it was by the metal floor.

She kept replaying the scene of their capture, wondering what they could have done differently. The Filipino guard on the  _Gemini's_  gangway had kept the machine gun trained on them as they drifted closed. Behind them, Tolhurst had appeared on the prow of the  _Lady Aileen_. He was also carrying a machine gun. The Port Police were licensed to carry weapons- it was too small a force to have a separate division. And too many of the cargo and container ships had been known to resort to armed security guards carrying such weapons when the ships passed through the Gulf of Aden and anywhere near Somalia, which meant that when the ships arrived in Tilbury, there were gun-toting crew members. So, all of the police officers were licensed and trained.

Tolhurst used the loudhailer on the launch and told Donna to start the RIB's engine and to reverse it back towards the  _Lady Aileen_ , and then to come aboard. In the searchlight beams now shining on them, she had seen Sherlock considering the options. Going overboard and trying to swim for it was just not sane. Penned in by the concrete dock on one side and the five and a half meter draught of the cruise ship, there was nowhere to go to escape the bullets. Even if they could get deep enough, the  _Gemini_  was twenty meters wide- they'd run out of oxygen. Given the water temperature in November, the cold shock response would kick in and their bodies would try to hyperventilate. If the lack of oxygen didn't kill them, the hypothermia would. She gave a quick shake of her head to dissuade him from anything so crazy.

"Keep your hands on your heads, where I can see them." Tolhurst was taking no chances. He made Donna get on board first, and then cuffed her with his police handcuffs to the grab rail on the launch's deck next to the concrete wall of the dock.

"Kneel!" Then he pointed the gun at her head. "Alright, Holmes, your turn. Get onto the launch and stay well clear of us. Walk around the other side to the stern and into the wheelhouse. If you make the slightest move out of line, I will kill her."

She had never liked Tolhurst much. He seemed remote and suspicious of all of the Health Authority Staff. Simon had told her that the detective was a former marine, and he'd brought with him a set of attitudes and prejudices born of overseas duties where everyone with a skin that wasn't white was a potential threat. When she had pressed Simon about why the police were taking so long to solve the two murders, she remembered the constable's sad shrug. "The bloke's a bloody racist; to hear him talk they're just two proto-terrorists who got their comeuppance at the hands of their non-Muslim crewmates."

Now she knew better. When Tolhurst uncuffed her and dragged her into the launch's wheelhouse, Sherlock was already lying on the floor, with blood running from his temple where he must have been hit. One Asian-looking man was literally kneeling on the detective's back cuffing him, another was working on his ankles with plastic ties. But at least Sherlock was still conscious at that point, if stunned into submission. Then one of the dark-skinned man ripped her gloves off and used the plastic ties on her, too, before dumping her in a chair fixed to the cabin floor. There was a short figure in a yellow high-vis jacket at the wheel. Donna realised that it was Sharon Gillespie, as she turned to watch them over her shoulder with a sneer.

Tolhurst yelled at Sharon. "Let's move!" Sharon threw the  _Lady Aileen's_  throttle into reverse and the launch backed away from the stern of the  _Gemini_. She turned the wheel and the boat came about, heading back into the main channel of the dock area. Unable to use her hands or feet to keep her balance, Donna started to slide out of the seat.

"Why?" she couldn't help but ask the question, as Tolhurst shoved her back hard into the chair.

He smirked. "You have no idea, you silly woman. You think it's about a cargo hold worth of useless grain? Think again."

She kept wondering what the best strategy was. Should she keep quiet and hope that if they thought she knew nothing, they would let her go?  _This is a man who KILLS people who get in his way._  What risk was there in finding out more?

"Is there another shipload of blackbirds coming in then?" She couldn't help but enjoy the surprise that flared in his eyes.

He snarled, "What do you know about that?"

"You're bringing in illegal immigrants and selling them to passengers taking cruises. You're nothing better than a slaver."

His eyes blazed with anger. The blow that came knocked her out of the chair and onto the floor. "I'm finding something useful to do for this rubbish coming into our country. They're scum, taking our housing, our jobs, abusing our benefits and health service. They'd be dead in their home countries, killed off as useless female mouths to feed. Here they perform a service- and nine times out of ten, they get taken back out of the UK when their masters leave. That's a win-win in my book."

"How many, Tolhurst? How many have you sold into slavery?"

It was the overweight woman at the wheel who roared with laughter. " _THOUSANDS_ , you silly cow! This has been going on for three years right under everyone's nose. I've salted away a good little treasure chest in a Luxembourg bank account, but I'm not greedy. A lot's being used to fund the activists working to keep our shores free of rubbish like them."

A baritone voice came up from the floor. "You won't get away with it. The Met  _knows_. They are on their way, and they know what you're doing. Let Foreman go. You can keep me as a hostage if you want, but there is no need to double your risk. You can let her off at the lock."

Tolhurst walked over, and put his big boot hard on Sherlock's back, forcing a grunt of pain from the prone figure. "Oh, goody, our celebrity detective has found his voice. Well, Mister Sherlock Holmes, a fat lot of good your deductions have been- just ended up getting you and your little help-mate here killed. Your Met people won't be here for ages yet; that black woman sergeant? Just an example of the Met's going mad on political correctness. She's the sort to be a 'by-the-book' kind of copper. And your grey-haired veteran will be let out to pasture when they can't find a bloody trace of you two anywhere. You'll disappear just as successfully this time as you did two years ago." He leaned down to say with glee, "only this time you'll  _really_  be dead."

Muffled because his face was being pushed into the deck of the launch, Sherlock tried again. "They know about the  _Gemini_ ; that phone was linked to the Met."

Donna watched as the big detective grabbed Sherlock by the hair, jerking his head up off the floor. "Too late- they'll get there too late. The  _Gemini_  will be cleared of the women within the next fifteen minutes, using the RIB you so generously provided. Even if they get forensics on the case, it will take  _days_ for them to runs tests and find anything that will stand up in court- by then, we'll be long gone." The big man knelt down on one knee, still holding Sherlock's head up by the hair. He bragged, "You think you're so smart to have found some women- you have no idea of the scale. We've got other storage facilities. The  _Morning Linda_ 's already got another twenty seven on board, so the Gemini's stock will just have to bunk up with them for a while until the  _Braemar_  sails. I've been to the station briefing room, by the way. Erased everything- your pathetic drawings and your speadsheets. Wiped the computer files, too. They'll have to start from scratch."

Donna decided to take her lead from Sherlock. If he was going to point out that they wouldn't get away with it, she'd help. "Sharon, you need to know." She decided to lie. "I've sent the file with the details about all the cargo you passed as clean to Walbrook- and the sample of ergot rye. The samples from the  _Printessa_  are going directly there, too- with your name on it. How did you use it to kill the Filipino woman?"

The woman called back to one of the guards to take the wheel. "Get us to the lock gates and hold station." She stalked back to Donna and then spat in her face. "She was scum. So are you. And stupid. My job was to keep them  _alive_. I used grain from the ships, and damaged goods from the warehouse to feed the bints before they go off to their new owners. That dead aborigine? She was too stupid to realise that the grain was diseased, so she kept using it to make her bread. It drove her crazy and one of the guards killed her because he thought she was possessed by the devil. He's gone by the way- signed on as crew and shipped back to Jakarta a month ago. So, you can't blame her death on me. I'm not involved in that part."

"Tell that to the Director. You're an accomplice at best."

"Only if you live to tell the story. If anyone accuses me, I'll make something up to blame it on you. Say that you've disappeared after pocketing bribes and trying to pin them on me. There will be no  _evidence_ except your word." She leaned in close to Donna's face. "And you won't be there to defend yourself. We're going to kill you both, and put your bodies onto an outgoing freighter."

Sherlock tried to roll onto his side, but the Filipino guard kicked him into staying still. It didn't stop him from talking. "It's the  _Rio Tamara_ , isn't it? That's the ship that brought in the latest group?"

Tolhurst laughed and walked over, landing another kick on the prone figure. "You think you're so bleeding clever. Yeah; it's the  _Rio_. Your body and that of your girlfriend here go in where our crop of illegals was stowed. Next Stop? Port Harcourt, Nigeria, by which time you'll be good and ripe. No one will be able to identify the rotting carcasses that will be dumped overboard before it gets into harbour."

Sherlock was wheezing, but not done. "It won't work…" Before he could finish the sentence, the Port detective grabbed the gun from the guard and smacked the butt across the back of Sherlock's head. "That'll shut you up."

Sharon was now back to the wheel, taking it from the guard, and thumbing on the ship-to-shore radio.

"Let us in, lock keeper."

The static cleared, and the port control tower replied. "Yes, mam. Water will equalise in four minutes; just got time to get you in and ready for the tide."

The gates slowly swung open and the ship started to move into the lock. Tolhurst shoved Donna roughly on the floor, alongside Sherlock's still form. "Stay quiet, or I'll hit you, too." A tarp was then thrown over the pair of them.

She could imagine the lock gates closing behind them, and then the launch slowly rising as the water from the river was allowed in. The sound of water rushing by the side of the launch made her realise that she needed a pee.  _Too much coffee._  That almost forced a hysterical laugh.  _I'm about to be killed and all I can think of is that I'm going to wet myself._


	10. Chapter 10

Once the front lock gates opened, Donna felt the launch swaying in the eddy caused by the inflow from the Thames. Then there was a roar of the engine and the  _Lady Aileen_  leapt forward like a greyhound out of its starting gate. She felt the boat lean into a hard turn to port. The right hand turn meant they were headed downstream. The tarpaulin was jerked away and rough hands grabbed her. She was then picked up like a sack of grain- one of the guards had her feet, the other her shoulders. For a moment, she was terrified that they were going to throw her overboard. She'd surely drown, given how securely she was tied, so she tried to wriggle out of their hands. The man in the front dropped her shoulders and she crashed onto the floor, banging her head to the point where she saw stars. Momentarily stunned, she did not resist when he picked her up again and then took her down the hatchway to the lower deck.

She was carried to the forward compartment, and thrown in. A few minutes later they returned carrying an unconscious Sherlock, tossing him in head first so that he landed half on top of her. She spent the next ten minutes wiggling out from under him. Once she could breathe again, she tried to remember what the space was like. It had an odd shape that tapered sharply at one end to follow the prow of the launch. It was a glorified storage cupboard, not much more than a meter in height, and both of them were lying on top of ropes that smelled of stale brine water. It was enough to make her gag and she had to struggle hard not to vomit. She tried to distract herself by calling up memories of the launch. Donna knew the  _Lady Aileen_  well enough, but had only ever travelled in the upper deck- the wheelhouse cabin was well lit, with windows on all sides. Here there was only a tiny window, no bigger than a good hard-backed book on each side of the bow. Through she was facing the left window, she could see that the sky was still dark. Even so, it was enough to let in the lights of the shoreline. She tried to recall the map. This was the port side, so the northern bank of the Thames. Downriver from the port, they would first pass the Tilbury Fort and then the power station. For some reason, being able to know where they were mattered to her.

She heard the thrum of a passing boat, and felt the launch cross its wake, heaving itself up over the choppy little waves. Probably the Gravesend Ferry. Even the name sounded ominous, given their current situation. She knew that the first crossing was early, designed to get the 6am dock workers to their shift. The boat was tossed from side to side, and the hull smacked the waves. They were going downstream at quite a pace. She tried to guess the time. It was probably past five-thirty now, less than an hour had passed since their capture. She kept wondering when or if Sherlock was going to regain consciousness. The doctor kept trying to listen to his breathing, in the hope that his skull had not been fractured. At first her hands pressed up against his stomach gave her some idea of his condition, but it was getting harder as the feeling in her hands was now being replaced by pain. The only good thing was that her hands were also getting very cold, and that numbed them. With her back to him, it was hard to tell what was going on.

Donna tried to calm herself.  _Panic solves nothing_. There would be a long spell of dark coastline, all the way around the bend, before moving north. Thurrock Council had preserved this area as natural; fields and salt marshes mostly, until the Thames reached London Gateway, the brand new port that was just about to open. Run by Dubai's DP World, London Gateway would sound something of a death-knell for Tilbury. They had six huge new docks on the north shore, all the most modern equipment and the space to build Europe's largest logistics park in which to store the goods offloaded. Donna knew that it would probably only take another five years before Tilbury was put up for "re-development"- turned into some new posh marina with fancy waterside apartments for City workers who wanted to be nearer the countryside. She could imagine a fast cat service starting up to get them to Docklands and Canary Wharf _. What am I worrying about? I won't be here to see it._

Behind her, Sherlock seemed to shift a bit and then he groaned. Their heads were right up against each other, pushed that way by the curve of the prow. Back to back, it was hard to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.

"Shh. Sherlock? Don't let them know you're awake. They seem to be scared of you, so Tolhurst clobbered you."

There was no reply.

She tried again. "Are you in there?"

He grunted. "Make up your mind. First you tell me to keep quiet, then you want me to talk."

She found that funny. Stifling a giggle, she said, "Just looking for proof of life. Are you alright?"

There was no reply.

"Heh- you still there?"

"Obviously." This time his reply was slurred, a little hesitant.

"Your head?"

"Hurts…waves don't help."

She could sympathise, the up-down motion of the bow was accentuated this far forward. "Just don't throw up, please."

"I'll try to bear that in mind."

She started to think about concussions. She needed him to stay awake.  _Keep that mind occupied._  "What do you think we should do?"

The detective wiggled, probably testing his bonds. "…want the good or bad news?"

"Uh, I think I can guess the worst, so if there's anything good, I'd be thrilled."

"…still got my phone."

"Didn't they search you?" She was astonished.

"Mmm, …shoved it down my pants… a good Muslim wouldn't go there."

Now she did giggle. And that made her realise that she was still desperate for a pee. "Can you turn over? Maybe I can get my hands on it."

He was struggling to move. He groaned again and went silent.

"Sherlock?"  _Damn, he must have lost consciousness._ If his hands were as tightly bound as hers were, it would be hard for him to move.

Then a bit of luck. The  _Lady Aileen_  must have cleared Coalhouse Fort, a Victorian coastal defence built in the 1860s. The Thames took a sharp bend northwards here for a thousand meters, and the launch leaned into the curve of the river, bucking a bit as the incoming tide fought back. The effect was to dip their side of the boat down, and she was shoved up against the bulkhead wall. The same motion meant that even unconscious, Sherlock rolled over. He collided with her cuffed hands and she cried out from the pain.

"Shhh. Don't…head hurts enough."

"Oh, God that hurt."

"Good- it means you still have some feeling in your hands. Unzip me."

She could feel the fabric of his trousers, and she tried to wiggle her fingers to get some feeling back into them. "I'm not sure I can actually grab something as small as a zip."

"jus…keep trying." His voice was definitely slurring now.

Her right hand's index finger seemed to find a gap in the fabric at the top, and she wiggled it in further trying to ignore the soft bits of flesh under the pants, then pulled in the direction of the stern of the ship. The gap in the trousers got bigger. "I think I'm making progress. Can you see?"

"No, but I can feel it."

That threatened to set her off again.  _It must be hysteria._  The thought of putting her hands down an attractive young man's pants might sound erotic, but this was hardly the time or place _._  "Um, how am I supposed to get the phone through the cloth?"

"Hugo Boss Y-front boxer briefs…find the entrance."

She moved her fingers, trying to ignore the fact that they were slippery with blood. At least they were getting a bit warmer. Then she found a thicker seam at a slant. She wiggled her index finger in through the opening and touched metal. At least she hoped it was metal, because it was very hard. And then she really couldn't stop the giggle. "Are you pleased to see me, or is that a phone in your pocket?"

There was no reply for a moment. Then "It's in my pants, not my pocket." He sounded confused.

"It's a misquote of Mae West, Sherlock."

"Who's she?"

She struggled to get her thumb in place so she could pull the phone out. "Doesn't matter. I've got it. What next?"

"Just a little way. Don't drop it."

"Ok. How do I tell which is the front?"

"Think it through."

Donna was trying hard to visualise what her hands were doing; it all seemed back to front. Then she realised that she should be able to feel a difference because the glass is on the front and the metal on the back. She tried. One was slicker to her fingers.  _Blood on glass- yep, that's the front._  "Okay, I've got the front. Now what?"

"iPhone…" His voice sounded weaker, dazed.

"Um, I'm a Nokia gal."

"First, got to find….top…if you feel a button, that's top. Press it for five seconds."

She fumbled. "Can't feel a button."

"Tha's bottom. Turn it..ov..ver." His speech was definitely getting worse.

She fumbled a bit. "This is hard. My hands are so slippery from blood."

He groaned.

"Uh, okay- I think I've got it." She pressed the raised section in and counted.

They were rewarded by a flare of light in the dark cabin.

She actually heard him take a deep breath. "Good. Tha's good. Now shut up."

She was perplexed.

Sherlock then spoke in a much louder voice. "Call Lestrade. Audio On."

"What?"

"Shut up. I'm talking to Siri."

She was trying to figure out who the hell Siri was when suddenly the line connected. There was a lot of noise- some sort of machine roaring in the background. Then the Detective Inspector's voice- " _SHERLOCK_! What the hell? I told you not to do anything crazy. Are you in the launch?"

There was a sudden lurch to the right, as the boat turned hard to starboard and accelerated. The bow lifted far out of the water, and then smacked down with a thud and a shudder. The phone slipped from her fingers. "Oh, shit, shit. Shit. I've dropped it," she wailed.

There was no reply, just the roar of the water crashing under the hull. They must be at full speed now. "Sherlock?"

"Hello? Hello? What's happening?" There was a tinny sound, not far from her right ear. The phone must have fallen into the ropes and then slid towards her head.

" _Lestrade_!"

"Is that you, Foreman?" Miraculously, the phone had not cut the Met officer off.

She shouted, "Yes. We're prisoners. Tolhurst- it's Tolhurst and Gillespie; they're the ones who've been selling illegals. You've got to stop them."

She could barely hear the reply.

"Say again?" She hoped to God her shouting wouldn't be overheard. The launch's engine was at full throttle, so maybe not.

"Where's Sherlock?

"Passed out- concussion."

"We've got you on GPS now. Are you headed to the  _Rio Tamara_?"

" _YES_! How'd you know?"

"Just hang in there."

Donna heard boots on the deck above; people were moving around. She was trying to figure out what it meant when those boots came down the four steps to their deck. The compartment door was flung open and someone grabbed her tied ankles.

She was dragged out feet first, right over top the unconscious form of Sherlock, who didn't move. Rough hands grabbed her belt and hoisted her up over his shoulder. The guard's reefer jacket was rank with sweat, despite the November freeze;  _he must be scared_  is all she could think.

After the darkness of the lower deck, she had expected more lights on- but the wheelhouse was dark, too. She was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. When the guard pulled a wickedly big knife, she tensed herself, expecting the worst, but he bent over her legs and then cut the tie around her ankles. Tolhurst was at the wheel, his back ramrod straight with tension. Gillespie was leaning over and fiddling with the VSAT. "Damn thing! Why aren't they responding?"

Tolhurst shouted at her. "The fucking helicopter is messing with the satellite signal."

 _Helicopter?_  Donna realised that the sound she had heard in the background when Lestrade was speaking was now audible inside the cabin. It had to be a police helicopter, and it was coming closer.

The Filipino had gone back downstairs and was now dragging a limp form up to the main deck.

"Take the wheel, we might still have time to get on the tanker."

As Sharon took over, Tolhurst grabbed Donna and hoisted her to her feet. She felt the gun in his hand go up against her temple. "Do as I say and you live a little longer."

The guard grabbed Sherlock again, who groaned. Strangely, Donna was glad for that sound. It meant he was regaining consciousness, rather than lapsing into the coma that could accompany a skull fracture.

As the helicopter came closer, Tolhurst took her in a lock hold across the throat and walked her out onto the aft deck.

"We're going to play hostages now."


	11. Chapter 11

"It's not your fault, Sherlock."

"Wrong. It  _was_  my fault. If I had been quicker to realise that she was the one who laid the trail of clues, I would have taken precautions to keep her out of the investigation."

"That's what I don't get. Why didn't she just go to the Essex police and tell them of her suspicions? Why the elaborate game with the nursery rhyme?"

"She had no proof. She was scared and relying on me to uncover it. But, through my own carelessness, I let her tag along."

Greg grimaced. "Don't remind me. I  _told_  you not to do anything crazy."

No reaction.

"Are you alright?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Preceded by a rather world-weary sigh, it was about as uncharacteristic a question as Greg had ever heard out of Sherlock. For a man normally able to deduce what Greg had for breakfast the day before yesterday, for Sherlock to have to ask for clarification about the question was just another sign that he was far from alright. The DI was standing in the middle of the living room of 221b, trying to get some sense out of the younger man, who had folded himself up in his chrome and leather chair. It was odd to see someone so tall become so small that he could fit into it sideways- but it seemed to have happened.

"It means I'm worried."

This was met with a small huff.

"I mean it, Sherlock. This isn't…like you."

"What would be 'like me'?"

Greg ran his hand through his short silver hair. "Don't know- maybe you pacing around this room telling me what an idiot I am, complaining that the press got it all wrong, the police are morons for not being able to prosecute all three hundred and twenty seven cases of domestic slavery that you've uncovered. Why aren't you doing that?"

"I can't be bothered."

"Yeah, that's  _exactly_  what I meant. The idea that you can't be bothered is what is so… not you. You are  _always_  bothered. You work yourself into an absolute frenzy until you solve the puzzle. And we all have to follow along behind you. And you get annoyed when we can't."

"Go away, Lestrade."

Greg wasn't prepared for this. Over the years, he'd seen Sherlock high, in the midst of withdrawal, angry, or manic with excitement. But he'd never seen the man despondent. No, that was too mild a word.  _Depressed._  That's what it was. Lethargy he could deal with. In the post-case crash, Sherlock often retreated to a sofa for silence- it was his way of re-charging his batteries which had been exhausted by the sensory demands of solving the case.

Greg sat himself down in what he still thought of as John's chair. It was tweed, comfortably rounded and rather old fashioned- as different as possible from the brutally modern chrome and leather that Sherlock preferred. Summed up the two men he knew rather neatly.

He decided to appeal to the man's ego. "The press are going bonkers- this is the second time in a month that you're on the front page. This time, they're calling you  _The Angel of Mercy_ , for God's sake. There were forty three girls on board the  _Morning Linda_  and the  _Gemini_. And the Crown Prosecution Service is going after hundreds of people who bought those victims over the past year. There's a public fundraising campaign to rescue them, get them legal representation, protect their rights. It's even trending on Twitter in London!"

No reply.

"It doesn't stop there. Interpol has passed the files to seventeen other countries to get the girls who are overseas released. You have an international reputation now. It's big. Right up there with the Pountney Club.* In fact, the Met press office told me this morning that solving this case has earned us more positive press both at home and abroad than any other single case this year. The Home Secretary has made a statement in the House of Commons praising the operation."

No response.

Greg decided to take a different tack. "Donna Foreman's been asking about you. I went to see her in hospital. She's going to be alright, Sherlock. She doesn't regret getting involved." The DI had been shocked by her statement- how much the pair of them had figured out before they set out in the inflatable, the way Sherlock had used the phone, and then what had happened on the launch. She was still on a lot of pain-killers, but he'd taken her statement himself, rather than send someone she didn't know.

The ME seemed remarkably philosophical about the whole experience. "I'm alive. Others died. I count myself lucky. I get to put this behind me. Poor Simon West didn't."

Greg kept replaying the scene in his head, when she and Sherlock had been dragged onto the deck of the launch by Tolhurst and the Filipino guard, both with guns pointed at their hostages. Holmes had his arms and ankles bound, but managed to get himself on his knees as the helicopter pinned the  _Lady Aileen_  in its searchlight, up against the side of the  _Rio Tamara_.

The pilot turned the helicopter slightly as the window behind Greg's seat was flung open and the cold pre-dawn air rushed in.

"Sir, I can only get one clear shot, not two."

The voice of the SO19 officer was tinny over Greg's earphones; but he didn't need to hear it well, because he could see the problem. The guard with a machine gun to Sherlock's head was vulnerable, but Foreman was on her feet, held tight by Tolburst with a pistol to her head. He was using her as a shield, between him and the copter, probably knowing that there would be a marksman in the seat behind Greg.

Reluctantly, Lestrade decided. "Can't risk it; we'll let the boats get closer."

The two launches from the Kent and Essex Marine Police then came around wide both the stern and the bow of the  _Rio Tamara_ , where they had positioned themselves so they wouldn't be spotted. Two jet skis, each manned by two officers in wetsuits, followed. They were a little slower than the high-powered launches, but they were more manoeuvrable, and took the inside line toward the launch.

The effect on whoever was at the wheel of the  _Lady Aileen_  was immediate, as it veered away from the cargo ship's side and tried to sprint back upstream. The guard shoved Sherlock face down on the open aft deck and ran back under cover into the wheelhouse, as Tolhurst pulled the woman back with him into the darkened wheelhouse. The helicopter moved to follow and Greg activated the loudhailer.

"Tolhurst. You cannot escape. Turn the engines off and surrender."

But the Port detective had another ace up his sleeve, and decided to play it. As the copter came over the launch, the Filipino guards dashed out onto the aft deck, picked up the bound form of Sherlock and tossed it over the stern, before the boat accelerated away. Greg was on the loudhailer instantly, shouting instructions to the jetski team: " _Hostage overboard! He's bound and can't swim!_ " The nearest jetski altered course and headed for where the helicopter was hovering, its searchlights down on the water where Sherlock had been thrown in. Moments later, an officer was in the water and searching.

The first time the man had come up empty-handed, and Greg cursed. The man went under again, and agonising seconds crept by. This time when he came up, he was dragging an armful of dark coat, with a still form inside it. The jetski came alongside and took the collar, keeping Sherlock's head above water. The closer of the two launches had peeled away from its pursuit of the  _Lady Aileen_  and was headed for the jetski.

One of the hardest things Greg had ever done in his police career came next, when he ordered the pilot to resume its course after the Port Health Authority launch. He had no idea whether Sherlock was breathing or had drowned, but the helicopter had done everything it could to help him survive. It was now needed to recover the second hostage, if at all possible, and to stop the culprits from getting away.

The pilot's voice came over the headphones. "They're heading for Mucky Creek. There's a floating pier there. I'll alert the units in Thurrock." He opened the copter's throttle and caught up with the other police launch that was now following the wake of the  _Lady Aileen_. The second jetski had been left behind as the two launches hit full speed, but it didn't look like the Marine Police boat was closing the gap, so the helicopter accelerated again.

As their searchlight caught the  _Lady Aileen_  in its beams, the guard out on the aft deck started firing a machine gun at the helicopter. The pilot turned to the right and the Met firearms officer got his clear shot at last. The bullet hit him in the chest, and the guard spun around, his dying reflex pulling the trigger again on his machine gun. The bullets sprayed everywhere- down into the deck of the ship and then into the wheelhouse, as he fell. Lestrade watched, horrified as glass exploded, shattering the windows from the inside of the launch. Whoever was in there would have been caught in the hail of bullets.

Confirmation came when the  _Lady Aileen_  suddenly veered to the left, accelerating crazily before the engine seemed to stutter. By the time the police launch approached, the  _Lady Aileen_  was starting to slow down.

It was Donna Foreman who filled in the gaps for Greg. From her hospital bed, she explained that the guard's death throes had sent bullets flying everywhere. Tolhurst had taken the main brunt.

"He must have died instantly, because I felt his arms around me just go slack and then he fell, at the same time as my left arm just exploded- it was so odd to see the blood, and know it was mine, before the pain hit. As I fell, behind me, the second guard was on his knees, blood pouring out of his mouth. I think he was hit in the throat. Sharon was at the wheel, but she too had been shot. I could see blood coming from two places on her back. She fell forward and hit the throttle, and the launch skewed sideways at speed. And then I smelled the fuel- the forward tank must have been hit."

She seemed to run out of breath then. The nurse who was in the room was eyeing the heart monitor with some concern. "Just a few minutes more, please. She needs to rest."

"Just take it slow, Doctor Foreman. I realise this is difficult."

"Sharon was still alive and yelling, just yelling her head off that she wasn't going to let the cause down. She was on her side on the floor by the wheel, and grabbed the emergency kit under the dashboard. I didn't realise what she was doing until the flare went off, and I watched her throw it into the forward lower compartment- that's where the second fuel tank is. Somehow I got to my feet and threw myself out over the stern. I didn't think I would be able to use my arms to swim, because I thought they were still tied, but when I hit the water, I realised that my right hand was free. Between that and my feet, I could kick and keep my head above water as the launch left me behind..."

Greg would remember what happened next for the rest of his life. The flare must have ignited the leaking fuel, and the  _Lady Aileen's_  fuel tank exploded. The pilot pulled the copter up violently, to escape the flames that lit up the sky. The police launch was just far enough away to miss being in the backwash of the explosion. Later, the Kent & Essex officers gave him the details, which he couldn't see from their position above the billowing smoke that followed. The explosion had ripped the  _Lady Aileen_  in half; the forward section with the fuel tank under it took the brunt of the damage. The aft section just slid under the water, taking the bodies of Tolhurst and the Filipino guards with it. They never found Sharon's body.

Donna was still speaking and it pulled Lestrade's attention back into the hospital room. "After the explosion, I don't remember much until the jetski officer pulled me out of the water. It was so damned cold. And then I was transferred to the launch, and an officer put a tourniquet on my arm. If it hadn't been for him, I would have died. The launch took me to the London Gateway quay and I was transferred to the air ambulance. I was so sure that Sherlock was dead. I kept thinking it was so unfair. He should have been the one to live, not me; he was the one who figured it all out and caught them."

She was very close to tears. "You aren't lying, are you? You aren't telling me he survived just because you think I can't handle him dying and this at the same time?" She looked at the bandages around the stump that started about five inches below her left elbow.

"He's fine. He was conscious when he went in, so had a little bit of time." He didn't tell her how the launch crew had to resuscitate Sherlock. Once they got him breathing again, he was picked up by the second Essex air ambulance. This one had to come from Colchester, but at 150 miles per hour it was the fastest of the four run by the county, so made it in fifteen minutes. By then, the Met copter was headed for the  _Rio Tamara_. UK Border Agency security officers were about to board the vessel, to make arrests and gather evidence. As the helicopter hovered over the cargo ship using the search lights to help the officers catch the fleeing crew members, Sally Donovan came through on the airwave radio. He'd left her behind at Tilbury to organise the search and seizure operations to free the hostages on the  _Gemini_  and the  _Morning Linda_ , and get the forensic teams from Kent, Essex and the Met to work on the Tilbury Police Station, the Port Health Authority and the Customs House- as well as on the two vessels, once their captives were released.

"Guv? Good news- the operation here has gone without a hitch. We've rescued forty three women and taken eight guards into custody. Arrest warrants are out for the suspects at the Customs House and the Border Agency. Have you found Holmes and Foreman? What's the status on Tolhurst and Gillespie?"

He'd told her about what happened, and that once he could get off the helicopter, he'd be going to the hospital. "It's Kent & Essex's crime scene, not ours. The Border Agency at London Gateway will handle the  _Rio Tamara_ , so when you're done with Tilbury, meet me at the hospital."

By the time Sally arrived at Basildon, Donna was in surgery, and Sherlock was awake, sitting up in a bed in the Emergency Department. He'd had a scan which showed it was concussion rather than a fracture, and Greg was trying to talk him into staying at the hospital for a while.

"No."

"Come on, Sherlock. Stay put for a few more hours."

"No. I'm allowed a voluntary discharge and they're bringing me the papers."

"At least wait until she's out of surgery."

"There is no point, Lestrade. A forearm amputation is a simple enough procedure. She will be under general anaesthetic for hours yet. Why would I want to stay?"

Greg had sighed. "If it had been John…"

Sherlock snapped back, "…but it wasn't  _John_."

Sally Donovan was standing at the foot of the bed, her arms folded. "No, it was just an innocent civilian you dragged into danger this time, a woman who trusted you to help. When are you ever going to learn that people get hurt, they can die, when you do crazy things?"

"Both of you should leave now; I need to get dressed." It was the same flat monotone that had bothered Greg at the start of the case. He watched as Sherlock pulled the nasal cannula off his face, and threw down the sheets and blanket, swinging his feet off the bed.

"Sherlock…"

"Get out." There was an intensity of anger that Greg had rarely seen before in Sherlock.

Sally huffed and said, "I'll wait in the car for you, Guv." She pulled the curtain around the bed, so Sherlock could get dressed.

"We still need a statement."

Sherlock was on his feet and leaning down, rummaging in the bedside locker for his clothes. "Where've they put my clothes?"

"They're still wet, Sherlock. It'll take ages for that coat of yours to dry."

Sherlock walked past Lestrade and poked his head out of the curtain. "Nurse, I'm going to need some of your charity clothes to go home in. I'll take the wet coat home in a bag, but the rest of the clothes you can keep in exchange for what you give me now."

Lestrade heard the nurse reply, "We can keep them here until they're dry; you can pick them up later."

"I won't be coming back."

And he had not returned to the hospital. Lestrade went back the next morning to get Donna's statement, and then went into the office to start the paperwork. That afternoon, he stopped by at 221b to get Sherlock's statement- and found him in this state of mind.

"Go away." The voice from the chair was a bit hoarse.

"Are you getting a cold? The Thames is  _freezing_ , you know."

"Why do you always state the blindingly obvious, Lestrade? I was in the water; I know how cold it was."

"I still need your statement."

"I've put it all on the USB on the coffee table. Take it and go."

"If it matters to you at all, Donna said she was happy to have given her  _right_  arm if it meant freeing up those women and shutting down a slavery trade."

"If that is supposed to be a joke, it is in very poor taste."

Greg gave him a rueful smile. "Not a joke; she meant it. She has no regrets. She said it's not like she's a surgeon. She can still practice medicine." He decided not to tell Sherlock that Donna said she would leave the Port Health Authority. She could not forgive the Director's willingness to brush her off when she'd first taken her suspicions to him.

The man folded up in the chair across from him did not reply.

"Sherlock, what's going on here?"

"Just go away, Lestrade."

"I'm going to call John."

That made Sherlock unfold himself and lever himself up. "No, you are not." His eyes were blazing with anger.

"Yes, I am. If you won't talk to me, then he might talk some sense into you."

Through clenched teeth, Sherlock repeated, "You will  _not_  call John Watson. Not under any circumstances. Not if you ever want to work with me again."

He thought about that threat. Cutting off the Work was probably the nuclear option in Sherlock's list of priorities. If he was willing to consider it, then Greg had to respect his wishes. "I thought you two had made your peace."

"Peace? Yes. But he's  _not_  to be involved, or called."

"Why not?" It didn't sound like 'peace' to Greg.

"If you hadn't noticed, he has his own life now."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, but we both know that changed when you came back from the dead."

"No, it didn't. He has a full-time job and a fiancé now. He has a future to protect. I am no longer working with John. I shouldn't be working with  _anyone_. It puts them at risk. Sally is right. I have no  _right_  exposing others to risk."

"Sherlock…"

He folded himself back up in the chair. "Not even you, Lestrade. I will share intelligence with you, because you need it to give to the prosecutors. But, that's as far as it will go. Those are my terms. Call me when you have a new case. Until then, leave me alone."

Troubled by almost everything that was implied by those words, Greg left Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end of this story arc within the Got My Eye On You Series. Next up is what happened next- but it is covered in a stand-alone story called Devonshire Squires. The reason is because it is not just from Lestrade's POV, although he does feature in it.


End file.
